


Salesman's Smile

by EnlighteningGravity



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Gore, Demonic Possession, I really thought I was gonna do one chapter of this, Mullet Grunkle Stan, Other, Paranoid Grunkle Ford, Scarring, Shock, Smoking, Stangst, because of scars reflecting past mistakes so views can be very angry or gruesome so ye be warned, cold war slang, cursing, entire thing told from Stan's perspective which is a majorly negative self-image, ford is a scared boi and i will protect him, like lots of cursing, mostly stan-centric angst tho, nightmares and hallucinations, some mentions of dark imagery/metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-08 22:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13467768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnlighteningGravity/pseuds/EnlighteningGravity
Summary: Stanley Pines isn't a bad person. He's just been through some shit. Shit like getting in trouble with a group of people that are fooled by his ever-so-convincing smile and charm when it comes to business. Four years after he gets brutally scarred, he receives a message from his brother who he hasn't seen in ten years to travel across the country. Little does he know the predicament his twin is in and how he'll take to understanding Stanley's new appearence.





	1. Prologue

God dammit. 

His face stung; god damn did it sting. A searing hot pain engulfed both of his cheeks, like the fires of hell had accumulated on his countenance. He was convinced he was among them for a second before finding out he was still unfortunately alive. 

He coughed up blood. Wait, when did he pass out? 

Struggling as he might, he forced himself to turn his head into the puddle of blood that had pooled around his face. More of it had added to the mess of gore. It had soaked into the collar of his jacket as well as into the front of his shirt and the hair settled in at the base of his skull. It was wet and stuck to his skin like copper-smelling rancid paste. His hair glued to the back of his neck and to the collar of his jacket, with the adhesive of the blood. He reached to his face, ungloved hands trailing among his quivering lips to the massive gashes that rested themselves upon both his blood-coated cheeks. He, with much regret, sat up as he whined and choked back a loud groan, his tongue following the gashes that curved up his face. Instantly clamping both hands around them, muffled, quiet and choked screams emanated from the throat of someone that was in unbelievable agony. 

God dammit.

His feet slid toward him, and his knees neared him, his legs numb from misuse or...something else? Something happened to them. An entourage of memories flooded back into his skull, perching themselves on the throne of visual remembrance. The group of three (Or four? He didn't remember...) men crowding around him, cornering him and holding his hands behind his back, spouting hateful speeches into the ears of a man that just wanted to run. Run and run and should be continuing to run. What was their motive? What did he do this time? Oh god, he couldn't remember. It was fuzzy, his head felt fuzzy, but he struggled to continue remembering because they might still be around and he knew more than anyone that he couldn't take them right now. Maybe he conned them out of something? Yeah, maybe that’s the most likely option. Or possibly he worked with another mob to take out one of their members? (Maybe that was why he was only remembering three people.) Or sold them something that didn't have quite all the nickels and bells he originally promised? Whatever the case was, he was here, trembling in what looked like an alleyway. 

Where was he? 

It didn't matter.

He remembers the blade. 

That's a good start, what'd they do with it? Does he want to know?

No, not right now. He needs to get out of here. What the hell, that should be the first thing he should be concerned with. Getting the hell out of there. Just give him a moment.

Stumbling, he got to his feet, one hand over his face still smothered with blood and pain, and one hand on a trash can that was placed aside him in the forgotten area. It was night and a light fog slithered around his feet, making the crimson scene look like a dusty black-and-white scene from an older movie. His vision again went fuzzy when he breathed in what he was sure was the first breath he was conscious of ever since he passed out. The air tasted foul of rusted metal, of reeking copper that lined his lips and face and god it was almost like he didn't want to breathe again. He felt sick, and bile rose in his throat before he slammed his fist on the trash bin beside him and swallowed, cursing himself as there was no time to be sick. He focused his vision forward, and his hand clamped tighter on the bottom of his face, the tips of his fingernails digging into what seemed to be the edges of whatever those freaks gave him. He took a step forward, then two and, before he knew it, was limping out of the alleyway and into the road before him where he felt exposed. But strangely safe. The thought pressed against his temples to keep to the darkness of the area he had woken in, however, the delicate silver of the streetlight donned him with a sense of security. Of nourishment. 

He leaned against the streetlight and looked up at it, still feeling his mouth that was slick with blood. He closed his eyes and tried to think as his mind continued to be fuzzy. Sleep was like someone that was yawning beside him, and he needed to wake them up before he felt the need to adopt the contagious yawn. His mind drifted to someone sitting silently at a desk, papers scattered and flooding the very surface which held them, some finding not an inch of room left so they cascaded to the floor. Why was he working so much? The adolescent boy scratched his russet-colored hair, which he remembered the boy hadn’t washed in days. It was some project that kept him up, that kept his eyelids taped to his forehead, that kept the light on, that kept his left hand delicately tapping the surface of the desk while he wrote with his right. The irritating tapping of 1-2-3-4-5-6 and 1-2-3-4-5-6 made him want to groan and dig his throbbing head into the pillow he clenched in his fists, the nails digging into the fabric. The lamp shone a sickening gold that burned the color out of his eyes when he saw the boy was then working again. Keeping him up. Keeping him from sleep. Yet, he didn’t mind. Why didn’t he mind? All of his urges in his awakening had prodded him to ‘Get up, tell him that it’s enough. What time is it? You should be sleeping too.’ And turn off that godforsaken light. That fire of a color made his very bones ache as it was constantly always associated with that very lamp. 

He wanted it off. Maybe then he could sleep to the silvery glow of the moon, which was blanketed by a still and pleasant darkness. Maybe then he could sleep to the silvery glow of the streetlight above him and just rest for a little bit. Just give him a moment. Close his eyes and rest for a bit. Just give him a moment and he could rest… just… for… a little…

His knees buckled and he shot awake, realizing he was losing consciousness and he couldn’t do that. The very kid in the flashback was… gone. Fuck. Just get over it. Stop it and move. Stop it and get out of here. 

He was getting confused.

Why was he thinking about this?

Why were these the thoughts running through his head? Dammit, he should be moving. Find your car. Get out of here. Where was his car? He couldn't remember. Just walk. 

Keep.

Walking.

Get out of here.

He dragged his hand on the sides of buildings as he trudged on, the fog weighing as much as dense snow as it engulfed his boots, and he steadied himself and his shaking figure. Out of the safety of the light and out of the safety of his ignorance to his screeching agony, which was now nestled from within his temples, every step let out its accursed song and let him know that it was there, though he knew it was there, just give him a moment.

Just give him a moment. 

He found his car shortly after.God, every time he found it alive the red paint job looked just a little brighter. It was tied to him and he wasn’t sure if it was a curse or a blessing (well, considering it is his baby that has managed to get him this far after the incident when he was seventeen, he was at least ten percent more sure it was a blessing. Or at least it was a blessed curse.) Why they had not stolen it he wasn't fully sure, but two of the windows were bashed in and glass littered the asphalt. His stuff was gone except for a small bottle of water and whatever fast food wrappers had been left in the car. He'd re-supply later when his mind was intact and when he wasn't shaking so badly. He thought he was better than this- better AT this. He got in the front seat and turned the car on, not wasting another second to be left alone with any thoughts lingering about who was around or if they were coming back. Just drive. 

Get out of here. 

He tried the best he could to keep his blurry vision focused while the road stretched out in front of him, running past stop lights unguarded by the vacancy of the area, the only light being from the flickering street lights rather than the familiar glow of restaurants and stores that he occasionally was in and out of, to stock up on food and supplies without surrender of a dollar in his pocket. This, he thought, was comforting in the slightest, or he assumed it to be rather than focus on the fire that was in his face. He needed to get cleaned up somehow and get cleaned up safely. Rather save the bottled water and find somewhere open, somewhere with a bathroom or with running water. Anything than stay in the car and let the wounds fester. Anything than staying where he was, vulnerable to whoever lurked around the corner and wanted him dead. God dammit, anything than being here and in his current state, his hand locked over his face like a shield, but one that was quivering with fear and with misery. His other hand was locked on the wheel, white-knuckled as he drove at least five miles over the speed limit on seemingly unguarded streets in a seemingly unguarded area. 

It was later before he swerved into the parking lot of a gas station, in which the light inside the small store shone like the streetlight he had stood under after his exit of the alleyway. He groaned as he turned the car off and growled when pulling the hood from under his hair, separating it from his neck, the mess of the crimson glue making it more difficult than it seemed to be. Covering his head with the hood, he pulled his shirt over his mouth and stepped out of the car, shutting the door after him. 

He walked in a confident and stable manner, trying to ignore the occasional limp or stumble that was the result of his fuzzy conscious, as he walked into the store and his eyes adjusted to the piercing white light he had to squint to ignore. Cameras littered the place, and he followed them to the counter of the only employee there, who was a young woman who appeared to be half asleep as she fiddled with her hair between her thumb and forefinger, in what he assumed was her effort to keep her own self awake. He couldn't blame her. He wanted to sleep right now. God, why hadn’t he fallen asleep under that streetlight? 

He knew why he thought? Maybe he was dying? That would explain a lot, actually. He wasn’t sure of the other injuries he was given besides whatever was done to his face. Oh shit. He still had to tend to that. Maybe that’s why he was here. He saw the bathroom in the back of the store. One of those that a needed a key. God dammit. 

“Hey uh… I need to use your restroom.”

Her eyes tracked up his body to meet his gaze and they widened before she nodded hesitantly and handed him the key to the restroom. He found it so difficult to speak, his words slurring and his tongue lacing the blade's work on his face, in where the assumed monstrosity lay concealed from underneath the stained tan t-shirt. He took the key and nodded quickly to her, walking (and resisting to stabilize himself by grabbing onto the shelves littered with energy drinks and different kinds of chips) to the back of the store where the restroom was and unlocked it before opening the door. 

Instantly he felt sick again. Happily, if he was going to be sick, it was in an appropriate place. 

He let the shirt fall from his face as he trudged up to the mirror of the restroom. He lowered his hood as his trembling hands turned the sink on and he splashed water on his face. He watched the once clear water turn a shade of pink.

Then he looked up. 

He couldn’t speak suddenly. It was like the devil himself dug his claws into his throat and ripped out his vocal cords while they were not of use. 

His mouth was carved, ever so violently in the shape of a smile that took up the majority of his face. 

He thought he stood there for what seemed like an hour (or two, or three from how it seemed to be) gazing at his abhorrent scars. Wide and uneven, the skin folds of the scar not lining up to each other, he remembered the filthy and coarse blade being held above his face. They were gruesome and sickening, and it was then he remembered the blade in his mouth. His hands behind his back. The back of his knees kicked so that he was looking up at some figure with a knife wielded in their right hand, who was only lit partially by the streetlight outside of the alleyway, which had its attention more focused upon vacant roads than whatever was going to happen to him. He remembered fighting, but they had a bat with them and he remembered being hit in the head. He remembered launching flimsy punches before he was restrained. They were laughing, their voices scratching against the sides of his skull, his temples throbbing with what had passed through his ears earlier. He gripped the sink with both hands and felt the bile once again rise in his throat. He was shaking violently, his legs feeling numb and non-existent. He wanted to get sick. He wanted to get sick. He wanted to get sick. 

God dammit. 

“You want to deceive us? We'll give you a salesman's smile even you couldn't say no to!”

And he leaned 

over

the sink

and his vision 

blurred.

God dammit.

He felt the blade raking itself through his cheek, and that had the pain return at full force. He heard himself screaming past his coughing and gurgling of his own blood that had gathered in his mouth as the other cheek was then sliced into, the skin tearing open a gash of pure gore and cruelty.

He should be dead.

He should be dead but whatever fucker wanted to keep him alive, they did their job pretty damn well. 

He looked like a freak.

He looked at the new face of Stanley Pines.

With the horror of the world's most prominent salesman's smile. 

And he knew he did this to himself. 

It was then that thoughts crept into his brain, pushing their way through a crowd of other contemplations that should be heard, but their user was staring blankly into the unresponding glass of the restroom mirror. He thought of his brother and how much he missed him. How, if he ever saw him again, he wouldn't know what to do. He wouldn't know what to say. He wouldn't know what to think. 

He splashed more water on his face and grimaced, hands trembling and his sleeves soaked. He could barely feel his face. Just the hot pain that was numbing as time went on.  
The yellow-tinted light of the restroom pushed on his shoulders and he knew he had to leave. He knew he had to rest. But damn it, how do you live with that? Damn it, what’s going to happen to him? Damn it, what’s going to happen? 

Better not to act irresponsibly, though. He left the bathroom quickly, grabbing what he could. Just treat it like any other scar. Just stitch it up like any other scar. But it’s not like any other scar. No, bullshit. It’s like any other scar. Not that bad. Not that bad. Fuckers. He’ll find them. He’ll find them. He’ll teach em what it meant to fuck with Stan Pines. 

Or… who was he right now?

That didn’t matter. 

Just give him a moment. 

He left the store fast, not even bothering to cover up his face. 

He couldn’t care less about the employee, possibly dazed from an episode of momentary slumber, scramble up from her seat and yell at him the usual “Sir, you have to pay for that!” as he climbed into his car and threw whatever he looted in the passenger seat, among one dollar burger wrappers and empty space.

He’d heard enough.

Just give him a moment. 

He sped off into the comforting glow of the streetlights, the wheels screeching before the car was gone.


	2. Meeting

He wondered if he could do this.

Like really do this.

Because every thought

Told him to

Turn the car around.

It seemed like the snow closed in on him and his car like 

he was in his own personal snow globe.

And the 7-year-old child holding it in their desperate and chaotic hands was shaking it frantically. 

As if the snowfall was pleasing to them. 

But all Stanley could do was look out through his front window with an empty expression while inwardly, his thoughts watched from behind his eyes, waiting for him to do something. Waiting for him to do...anything. He breathed slow, yet his mind raced. Each breath birthed dainty clouds that gathered together at first then dispersed, freely, in the open air. Little did they know that they were confined in the same car as the one he had been trapped in for years. Yet it was more of a home than a room in New Mexico where he had been previously, panicking and pacing the floor, fretting over all that lost cash. All that promised gold. What they were gonna do to him. What chance he could take to actually step out of the room. 

But now he was far away from there and the snow was already piling on top of his car ever since he turned it off, the windshield wipers ceasing their rhythmic heartbeat.

Turn the car around. 

Just give him a moment. 

He sighed and looked up at his rearview mirror. Stanley could see already he was losing his calm, while his eyes held a fearful gaze, knowing full well what they were about to see. What he was about to see. His feet lay still and flat, resting from previously busy with their task of operating the vehicle in the winter scene. The current situation buzzed in his mind like static, as his body felt numb to his surroundings because of some sort of dread and fear for the future. Or maybe because it was below freezing. That was also an acceptable answer. He turned the postcard around and around in his gloved hands, the message inscribed with dark and quick letters flipping back and forth in turn with the town name of “Gravity Falls.”

He found humor in the name and chuckled at its irony. But stopped when he saw his cheeks lift, and bend his scars in a despicable manner. His thoughts went to Stanford and having actually to explain the whole thing. God, what happened that night was a mystery even to him. His memories were so twisted and mangled, jumping and climbing over each other as if there was a shooter in his brain. Or it was a beehive, all memories were workers as they buzzed senselessly through his head. He refused to think about it. All he could think about was how maybe, possibly, Stanford might listen to him when it came to actually telling him what he’s been through. Maybe show a little concern, a little “Stanley, who did this to you? Let’s go find them together. Let’s make them pay.” Just like when it was them against the world. Maybe, hell, even…

Forgive him?

He wasn’t sure he even wanted to be forgiven.

It’s a strange feeling he had and wanted to keep it that way. He’s come to so many conclusions and it’s just best to accept the fault. Permanently. In fact, everything he mentioned above was all more likely to be a dream. It’s just best to see what his twin brother wanted and work from there. That’s all he could do. Before he left, he would promise himself that’s all he would do. 

The car was getting cold enough inside anyway, where he knew it would freeze later on. When this happened, he didn’t prefer to be inside enclosed spaces. He opened the door and climbed out from where his car was parked on the edge of the dirt road, for it was so thick with snow he couldn’t continue on. Instantly the snow engulfed his boots with a frigid cold, and he slammed the door to his car before turning and trudging alongside the road and through the trees, bringing his hood over his head and facing down to look at the sea of white. It’s too late to go back now. You’re already outside. There’s nothing he could do but carry on.

God, what was he gonna say?

Stanley thrust his hands into his pockets as his heart thudded along with his stomps through the snow. They sang in unison, filling his ears with the dreaded tune even the wind couldn’t drown out. He trudged past frozen pines and rotted trunks from fallen trees, obviously too weak to handle the weight of the snow and the burden of winter. It was strangely beautiful, even to someone who held such an important chance to redeem himself in the twitching fingers that held the postcard in his pocket. And he’s seen it all. From cities to farms to crowded streets to vacant forests there was not one place that had too much of a difference to another. Each city street was like another, every alleyway was alike, all train stations looked the same. 

It’s hard remembering where you are when you have this mindset.

But Stanley Pines couldn’t forget this place even if he encountered another like it. Even if they were both named “Gravity Falls.”

It stuck out like a sore thumb. He couldn’t explain why. It just was so unique, off-putting, peculiar. 

Maybe it was because of the person that sent him here in the first place that gave him these vibes.

Yeah, definitely him. 

It was definitely Stanford. And how he was going to be seeing him for the first time for what seemed like forever. 

The roof of the cabin trailed into his vision when he let his gaze lift, slowing his pace as his heart sped up, therefore, breaking the unison of the accused duo that was so perfect together beforehand. But now, the atmosphere was off and intimidating, and he furrowed his brow in curiosity but also to ward off the negative thoughts that were yet to creep into his brain. 

No, he had to focus on Stanford. He’s family. It’s not that bad. Stopping, he lifted his hood from his head and looked upon where his brother lived. The shack was in admittedly, a poor shape. A horrendous shape. It held a formidable darkness about it, which made the shadows of the forest seem brighter and Stan's mind clouded with worry and concern as this was the sheer opposite of what he was expecting out of his genius brother. The barbed fencing lining the surroundings of the small shack caused him to pause, as well as the numerous signs prohibiting further passage. Instantly he thought his brother had gotten in trouble with a group of people in the town involving his work. Stanford had always been fearful some instructor would look upon his essays or some of his research and claim them as their own due to his absolute and undeniable genius but Stanley scoffed and reminded him that he was a student and to “not think too much into it” because surely, it wouldn’t spur too much attention… would it? Then again, most of his projects had. 

Or worse. They were twins. And Stanley had so many enemies. God, if he caused a mob to go after Stanford Pines living in a lonesome hick town in the dead center of Oregon, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. And thus the chance seemed more likely and it pushed on his shoulders. It birthed so many possibilities like Ford being kidnapped or beaten or hell, scarred like him. His fists clenched at his sides and he forced himself to swallow as his heart dropped. But also, quite possibly, it could be something else. But what? What could be so awful to resort to these measures?

He guessed it was time to find out. 

He climbed the stairs to the shack with struggle, all steps up feeling as though he dragged along weights chained to his ankles, and the snow held back their chains in its body which made his trek ever the more difficult. However, he was still, as his heart drummed in his chest and suddenly he was deaf to everything around him as he raised his fist to knock. He had to calm his nerves and grinned, to himself, as he thought of their moments catching up. As he thought of his brother pleased to see him, thankful he’s come, happy to get whatever it is resolved as quick as possible. 

He wouldn’t hesitate to fight for his brother. And fight whoever did this to him. Even after all they’ve been through. No, wait. Now thinking about it, he was hesitating. Maybe he should be. What if this goes worse than expected? Knowing his natural luck, it would. Might as well give it a try. Just do it. Give it a shot. 

Just give him a moment.

“You haven’t seen your brother in ten years. It’s okay. He’s family. He won’t bite.”

There were two hesitant knocks and suddenly the door opened and Stanley gawked as a crazed version of himself opened the door and shout as a crossbow was aimed at the center of his face.

“What is it?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!”

Hastily, he took a step back. Ford? That was Ford. What the hell? Caught off guard by the sudden greeting, he stared at the end of the crossbow, alarmed and opened his mouth to speak when he met Ford’s eyes. His eyes, once enraged and paranoid, widened in genuine fear for a seemingly cold and drastic realization Stanley couldn’t quite decipher in his brother’s expression alone; except that something was horribly wrong. 

“H-hey Ford,” Stan stammered and attempted a weak grin.“Thanks for the interesting intro, but uh… what the hell is this about?” He smirked and crossed his arms.“Happy to see me, Sixer? I mean the crossbow is a bit much, but c’mon.”

There was a silence. One that smacked the smirk right off Stanley’s face. Stanford lowered the crossbow only slightly and took unsteady steps backward into the shack, gripping the crossbow tighter as his hands visibly started to tremble, causing the crossbow to shake wildly as his eyebrows furrowed in befuddlement. Stan watched his brother move one hand away from the weapon to grasp the door, weakly, and jerked it slightly as if he was trying to close it while he descended further into the shack, keeping his eyes locked on Stanley. To no avail, the door slipped past the fingertips of his brother’s quivering hand, which immediately returned to the weapon. The darkness of the inside cast his expression into shadows and Stan resisted the urge to take a step forward to ask him why he looked the way he did. Why he was acting like this. Stan watched his brother stare at him with hostile and unnerving confusion. Then rage. Pure and utter rage just like a few moments previous.

“So this is how you come to me? By my brother? You s-sick fiend!! What’d you do to him?!” 

“Stanford, what’s going o-”

He was then struck with a blinding pain in his upper right arm and he screamed, clutching it instinctively and almost falling off the steps of the shack as he stumbled backward. He bit his lip and mumbled curses under his breath, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he groaned in absolute agony. Suddenly his mind was clouded with his thoughts screaming at him the obvious. The once deafened atmosphere screeched in his ears, and he knew he had just been shot by his brother.

Furious and instincts kicking in, he ran forward and punched Stanford fiercely in the side of the skull with his left fist, Stanford tumbling backward and the crossbow sliding from his grasp. Panicking, Stanford scrambled to his feet and towards the weapon before the collar of his trenchcoat was yanked behind him, lengthening the distance between him and the weapon. Stanley could feel the absolute fury and betrayal coursing through his veins as he spun his twin around and pinned him against the wall with his good arm, nestled tightly under his chin. The realization was setting in as primary instinct started to fade, in this is how he’d deal with any other piece of shit that attacked him, but the fact it was Ford made him think less. Stan remembered he was always armed, and when he got a chance, he would get his boot off and defend himself with a blade tied to his calf-

His brother flailed and kicked, spitting out grunts and cries, while Stanley locked him to the wall behind him, his fierce glare burning into Stanford’s terrified yet scornful gaze. He grit his teeth to stop himself from crying out again as he reminded himself of the arrow in his arm. It scorched his flesh with an almost unbearable pain, but Stanley hurt from something all the more worse. 

His brother had shot him. 

With a fucking crossbow. 

After wanting to see him.

He was beyond pissed. 

“What the absolute FUCK, Ford?!” Stanley yelled. He saw his twin flinch slightly but continue to struggle, in which Stan pushed him more into the wall, and Stanford gasped and shut his eyes, refusing to meet Stan’s anger. “You fucking shot me, y-you just shot me!!”

His twin continued to struggle and Stan kneed him in the stomach, which had Stanford groan and be still for just a small moment before kicking him back. Stan could only think about his fights with low life gang members he’s encountered or his last quarrel with some of Rico’s goons before they knocked him out and stuffed him in a car trunk on a warm night on the border of Louisiana and Mississippi. He remembered their taunts and lies, and how when he, with luck, managed to escape, recalled the variety of bruises and scrapes and scars, the whole package, entirely convinced he had reopened those cuts on his mouth that had healed so long ago when chewing through the tail light wires to find some way to escape.. He remembered the night in Chicago when he woke up from a failed fight with a bunch of those gang members, choking on his own blood and knowing he wouldn’t be able to see tomorrow. 

And yet, none of those were as terrifying as this. None of those compelled him to be so enraged at the level he was now.

He gripped the front of his brother’s shirt and flung him to the floor on his back. Stanford elevated himself and scrambled backward, clutching onto the posts to the staircase alongside him. Stan noticed how timid his twin was, and how his eyes were surrounded by darkened circles he must have been awarded from extreme lack of rest. His white button-down shirt fit loosely on his quivering frame, the buttons mismatched so that one side of the shirt hung lower than the other, which was tucked in somewhat neatly into his pants. The tie his twin was wearing was threatening to become undone due to how it dangled sloppily from his neck, the collar of his shirt lining it was left upright on one end and stuffed underneath the tanned trench coat on the other. Something had him frazzled, and Stan struggled to get his mind in check with the situation rather than stick with his uncontrollable urge to fight back. As he’s always done.

As he will ever do. 

“Stay away from me, you demon!! Get back!” Stanford spat, now shuffled against the wall and hand maneuvering inside his trenchcoat frantically.

“Ford!! Tell me what the hell is going on! Right fucking now!”

“You know exactly what’s going on, don’t try to hide it! I know exactly who you are and whose skin you’re wearing!”

Suddenly Ford sprang up and lurched towards his brother, propelling him against the staircase and pulling something from his coat. Stan cried out in surprise when Ford blinded him with… a flashlight? What the hell? Shoving his twin away from him, he rubbed his eyes and blinked repeatedly. 

“You’re not him.”

“What?!” Stan stammered and walked away from the staircase quickly, waiting for his eyes to adjust again to the engulfing darkness. He balled his fists and grit his teeth, expecting another attack from his brother; but nothing came except the silence and a paranoid Ford glaring daggers into his skull. “What is going on here?! Who’s “him”?!”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Stanley. I know exactly who you’re working with. It just goes to show I can’t trust even you!!”

“What are you talking about?!”

“You know what!!” Ford practically screeched, and Stan heard his voice crack severely from the volume and the effort he took to yell at his brother. Stan prepared for another attack from Ford. Anytime now. It could be any time. He was visibly shaken and mad with fear, and Stan slowly leaned forward, holding his hands up and reaching for the knife in his boot before Stanford spoke, his voice jolting and cracking with a mixture of sorrow and fear. “God, what happened to you…? Stanley…? Why’d he do this?”

“Who-”

“No.. no… no… nonononono NO!” Stanford suddenly spat. “I don’t want to hear your nonsensical questions!! They’re yet to throw me off… I know what happened… I know who did that.”

“W-Who are you talking about?! Answer me, Ford!”

“Shut up, you know who scarred your face like that! And from the looks of it, you’ve been working with him for awhile. That smug, grinning, sadistic traitor!! He would target you, both being deceivers and all… you’re his perfect target… you can get my secrets. Of course,” Stanford smacked his own forehead with the back of his hand. “He even put you against me!!”

Stanley stopped and felt himself at a loss for words. No, that’s not what happened. He’s not working with anybody, nor did he when he received the scars in the first place four years ago. “Look, this isn’t what you think,” Stan grunted as he stepped towards Ford, instinctively grabbing again his arm the arrow was lodged in. “This was an incident a couple years ago, I’m not working with anybody!” He paused, and Ford was eerily silent for previously denying everything he said earlier. “So I have no idea why you’re acting like this! I don’t know about any secrets or targets...” Stanley felt himself trail off and opened his mouth to say something, anything more, to reassure his twin but nothing came. So nothing was said.

There was a moment of silence, Ford stood like a statue, one unblinking with a set expression on his face. It was like his features were painted with precision but the eyes were rushed, wide and unsettling displaying dark, hurried work. He looked down and finally spoke in a hushed yet grave tone before clutching his forehead in the palm of one hand. “He said he hurt you… Stanley… you knew that he had my journal. You’re here to get the last one. And to think,” Ford stepped closer, his unblinking gaze locked on the scars that lined Stan’s lips and face, “I was actually going to trust you to take it away. I was going to trust you with the secrets that should be kept from Bill… but... I can’t trust anyone. I can’t trust anyone,” His breathing accelerated and once again, his face twisted in madness. "I can’t trust you! You’re both DECEIVERS!”

“Now calm down Sixer, calm d-”

Stan was taken back when Ford then launched himself at him, and he felt his neck being choked ruthlessly, the breath escaping him as if his soul was being driven out of his body. He struggled for breath as his twin’s grip tightened and finally mustered up enough strength to kick Ford away and punch him as hard as he could in the face. 

Stan watched his brother collapse on the ground, unmoving. His first thought was that he had to leave. He had to get out of there. He had to just run, even after it was getting dark from the might of the snowstorm and even if his car was a walk away and he really was not in the state to make it back, he needed to get out of there. But this… man, this was different. He nervously looked over his twin, who’s nose just started emitting a trickle of blood out of his right nostril. Ford breathed shallowly, his breath rustling some of the fallen papers that lay beside him (and around the literal entirety of the floor), his head lolling to one side, which made Stan sigh. Stan continued to watch his brother, who was driven mad by whoever… this Bill was. 

Bill… Bill… had he ever come in contact with one? He searched his mind for the name including anybody that used it as a nickname. There was Billy Drivers, who was a man he met in a local bar in Maine, William Dagger, an angry customer who made his presence well known by slashing the StanMobile's tires (and still the irony of his name perplexed him), and Guillermo Chavez, or one of his fellow past inmates, but none that would target him and track his family down. None that would notice a possible twin (hopefully they wouldn’t think Stanford Pines was just another alias for him) or his brother he had lost when he was seventeen. None that would even want his brother’s work in the first place.

Suddenly he was scared. Maybe one of the men he worked with was just under an alias like he was. He tried to contemplate any other possible conclusion saying otherwise, but Stanford looked like he’s been living here for awhile, isolated on the edge of a town that seemed a little mysterious in the first place. 

Of course, he blamed the isolation at first for Stanford being completely out of his goddamned mind. But why shoot at the scars? Sure, Stan had suffered through years of double glances at times he got onto a train in another state and attempted to decipher the reason between the options of if they were just alarmed someone had two gruesome scars on their face or if they’ve seen any word about him being wanted. The money Stan had spent on baseball caps and hooded coats seemed to be much pricier than the common necessities, as they were just a bit harder to steal (and to just get people to stop looking in his direction). That and his face was quite recognizable now for law enforcement. But for his brother to pull the trigger in response to the disfiguration? 

He scowled and put his head in his hands. God, he needed to leave right fucking now. 

But take care of Stanford first.

Turning towards his twin and getting behind him, he moved his arms under his brother’s and slid him towards the sofa in the other room of the shack. Instantly the thought that trickled in his mind was how unexpectedly light his brother was as if he was malnourished and had been so for awhile. The second was the excruciating pain emanating from his arm. But he’s been through worse. Walk it off. What about Ford? Stanford had that undeniable habit of going off coffee for days at a time, but that was in high school. 

That was where they left off. 

Surely it would have to have died off by this point, right?

He wasn’t sure. Habits die hard. Tell that to the cigarettes in his car. They would listen. 

An anger welled up inside Stan’s chest, burning just enough to ignite concern. How dare he be in this state because, by god, he was not like this when Stan was kicked out. This was not how it was supposed to be and how this was supposed to go. They should be sitting down, having a beer, discussing Ford’s research and schooling as well as Stan’s businesses and conflicts. He was not supposed to be here. Dragging his unconscious brother who was in an undeniable state of malnourishment and sleep deprivation while thinking-half-knowing that it was someone Stan attracted to him was nothing but painful; physically and mentally. His negligence, his ignorance, his refusal to actually call Ford had led to this somehow… and he had to figure it out. 

Stan dragged his brother on top of the sofa and decided to have a look around. 

He heard his brother slightly stirring after he set him down. 

Ignoring him, he walked outside of the room and into the unknown of the shack.

He had to get the arrow out of his arm. 

Just give him a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things get a little bit more interesting 
> 
> I also wanted to thank leto-gkika on Tumblr for their amazing fanart for this fic!!! :D ya'll can see it here like it's literally what inspired me to continue on from chapter one also they deserve a follow cuz they're the greatest: https://leto-gkika.tumblr.com/post/169225803419/stanuary-week-1-con-the-salemans-smile-from


	3. Searching

Waking Ford was probably his biggest worry.

Because, well shit, he just let him lay there.

Unconscious. And wanting to kill him.

So that was the first problem with not leaving right away.

The second problem was actually navigating through the shack. It was smaller, sure, but it was littered with artifacts, books, graph paper with formulas scribbled in sloppily with black ink. Overturned tables, weird, deformed creature skulls in jars. The list could go on with the surroundings. Every room was so different and it was bugging him which one was the one with his brother in it or which one was the one that preferably had a first aid kit or something helpful in it. He took a deep breath and pushed himself to keep it together for now.

Because his third problem was the arrow. He staggered into the restroom, searching rapidly through the medicine cabinet over the sink for bandaging. Any kind of bandaging, he wasn’t picky and knew how to improvise. Goddammit, he knew how to improvise. It was stupid, he thought, taking it out, but rational thought, as much as it poked and prodded at his temples, was overshadowed by the need to do something. To do anything. And going to a hospital was not an option... or whatever they had here in this town. Also because if he knew his brother now, (which he didn't, considering that maniac had tried to kill him) Stanford's last priority was getting Stanley safe. It was simple thinking of it this way, though it hurt beyond comparison because it seemed like just yesterday this kid was crying over an A- on a calculus test. But it wasn’t simple turning over already opened medicine bottles and pushing through already emptied cases of wrapping. He had shaken off his boot to grab his knife he held close to him as he was going to need it.

By god, there were so many emptied boxes of wrapping and bandages.

But here he was now, his coat thrown on the floor, with the enlarged wound in his arm, a tight piece of cloth tied just above it, and prying the goddamned head of the arrow out. Clean it. Wrap it. Get out. Quick. It’s just like any other wound. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. He muttered that same phrase through the towel that he had tight in his jaw. At least Stanford couldn’t aim for shit like this. At least the weapon wasn't as deadly as some he's encountered running from people in Texas. At least it wasn’t lodged in the bone. At least he’s hopefully going to make it out of here before his brother wakes up. Hopefully.

He’s no doctor. He’s learned that.

But even he had some natural luck here and there. And that’s saying a lot.

The rest of it seemed like a blur. Just instinct and experience acting on their own. Just like waking up in the morning and eating breakfast and stuff. Except in the place of froot loops and orange juice he was trying to get his arm to stop bleeding. When the bleeding wouldn't stop, he made use of the blade and a lighter in his pocket by cauterizing it and that will do for now. Just for now. He held back his anguish in the hand towel that was tight in his teeth. Anything was better than bleeding out, feeling yourself drifting out of your senses by causes of exsanguination and wishing you had a religion to look to when you know that everything is going to go dark anyway. But yet every time it manages to be the same. A knife wound to the side? Hope that doesn't get too bad. Some scars from cuffs too tight? Just be lucky you got out of them. You get used to dealing with injuries, one after the other. But he was no doctor. And he did the best he can to stay alive but who wouldn’t?

It was the reason why he looked the way he did.

Stanley Pines knew humans too well. They were prideful and arrogant but also naturally depressed and social animals. They knew their sins as well as they thought their god did and tried the best they could to hide from them. If given the option, they choose to remain inactive as they're too fearful to take any large risks until it becomes an addiction to do so and that could get a man killed. They fear death above any other man or medicine, so they try to grant life meaning with anything they can to put themselves in a reasonable position if not on a pedestal. But most importantly, humans struggled for hope and shortcuts. This was Stanley's key, his source of talent. This was his hook, line, and sinker. This is how he was able to twist the truth into believability and to lure the fish away from their eventual escape. They handed over hundreds in his starting years. His products, though not as quickly as he thought, still sold and these people believed that what he was selling would work, igniting their hope, and should get the job done. But another thing about the majority of humans was...

 

They were vengeful creatures. And the thing about some humans was...

 

They were smart.

 

His hand rummaged through his pockets to find a small flask of whiskey which he splashed on the cooled wound and gritted his teeth as he wrapped the wound tightly. He prided himself on being just prepared enough and being skeptical even if it was just Stanford he was running into. He'd hope this would do for now. Just for a couple days until he was somewhere else in Oregon, actually attempting to prevent the worst of infection. Just enough time to get out of this hick town and maybe return to the city where he could blend in a little easier. Just enough time to maybe have the pain in his arm decrease a little bit because it burned his flesh and his mind that this wound in its original state was Stanford's doing. His brother's doing. His twin brother's doing. It seemed like the only people that intended to hurt him were the smart ones. It was always them.

Stanley looked up in the mirror and his somber gaze fell upon those old scars. He was no doctor. He just tried to stay alive. He just tried to get them to stop causing him so much pain so he could focus on other things. Due to his negligence and dismissal of medical attention, they healed in a hideous manner, thick and jagged and oh so visible. Surely, they had the potential of healing better but it didn't help the manner in which they were applied. He feared the worst being that he would lose feeling in his cheeks and bottom jaw, but he was relieved to find that wasn't the case. Still, it felt wrong to speak, and when your words are your one lifeline to getting your next meal, it was panic. He wasn't able to attract the adoration of the public anymore when selling his products. That had to be the worst thing of it all on top of running low on ideas of how to actually hide the face that was the first seen when being greeted at the door. No one cared to buy when he bore a frightening grin that would cause many to turn the other direction. His falsified smile of his earlier cons was now a thing in reality that plagued him gravely, and he accepted it with abhorrence of his horrendous yet justified punishment.

This was the reality of the smile that greeted the unsuspecting at the sound of a door chime. This was the physical representation of his fiddling with human feelings. This was the consequence for his criminal conning. This was his burden to bear. This was how he paid for what he's done to society.

But he would rather die than roll over and show his belly at some slight disfiguration. And it wasn't his damn fault.

Stop thinking too much into it.

He’s already had these conversations. These thoughts. Why bring them up again?

Because it was oh so familiar. Leaning over a sink. Staring ahead. Trying as hard as he can to contemplate what to do about healing up what’s going to be another scar. 

And where to go next. 

But out of the two situations, this one was immensely different.

His brother, who he had not seen in ten years, inflicted the wound. Rather than some mangy unimportant gang members who had no names or faces to them. They were just a bit upset that he sold them overpriced firearms...or so he remembered firearms. Firearms or fake credit cards. Everything was twisted from that night and he couldn’t remember quite what he did in the first place. However, he didn’t really care as his customers, felons or not, usually get mixed up in his database. Especially after he couldn't get any more customers that were like the suburban single mother that found it so sweet that a nice young man was taking time to sell her a pleasant set of miracle towels. He just cared about what they had in their pockets and how much of a sucker they were. He chuckled to himself as he remembered how many bar fights have been started where he was held up by the front of his shirt by some random larger dude and he could only say was “Hi, yeah, who are you again?” and they would respond back with “I could ask the same of you.”

But he knew exactly who Stanford was. The little orange handprint. The paranormal enthusiast. The second captain to the Stan-O-War. 

The perpetual motion machine. 

The curtains.

And now the fearful. 

His brother was in trouble. And as much as it burned with a desire to run, he didn’t. As much as he wished he could abandon his brother like he abandoned him, he couldn’t. He hated this.

Stanley turned and held his injured arm close to his side, looking over the bathroom countertops and cabinets for some kind of information other than the state it was in. As compared to the front area of the house where their fight took place, he was among what was previously a noticeable scene of chaos. Among empty boxes of wrapping and gauze were toppled over medicine bottles, pills that have fallen out of their containers, tape, and razors. A bit odd, the rolls of tape and amount of razors there was but it was nothing compared to the displacement of the couple of forks that were hidden in the bathtub. And the darkened blood stains that they shadowed. 

Stanley felt a chill run up his spine and his heart drop from his chest when he took into account the stains that fell upon the counter as well, excluding the fresh mess that had come from his wound. The significance of the forks and the tape he was unsure of, but he had seen enough and backed out carefully from the restroom, tightly clenching his trusty knife in his able hand. Just in case. He had no intention of harming Stanford. He vowed he wouldn’t unless it was for pure self-defense. He repeated this as he put on his coat and his feet took him along the hallway into another room. 

Much of what he saw hesitated to surprise him, as he expected this heaping mass of clutter from their history as kids, however with the papers they’ve toppled over in their scuffle, many were unrecognizable scribbles of nonsense. Concepts and contemplations he wouldn’t have understood in high school much less now, where they lay on the floor from previously being stacked, lined margin to margin with equations and gibberish and data and… foreign language. Foreign symbols. Triangles with madly scribbled eyes that lay in its center? Stanley trailed the papers to the desk alongside some incomprehensible equipment he assumed to be his brother’s studies until his eyes descended upon a brilliant crimson leather-bound journal, labeled with the glistening gold of a six-fingered hand and the number one. His brother’s, he knew, from the entourage of pens that lay beside it, either chalked with teeth marks that lined the end in paranoid patterns to those that were unused or barely scathed. Covering the journal were more drawings of this Illuminati-like symbol, one Stan’s been so accustomed to seeing and losing in the dollar bills he’s come across. Why would Ford fill papers with this depiction of the symbol on the bill as if he was…

In trouble. With Bill. Money troubles? C’mon. It can’t be that bad. Maybe it was code for something. Or maybe it was another dumb assumption from him. Maybe he owes someone. His brother? Living a dishonest life? Please, that kid was a born tattletale and teacher’s pet by the age of ten. But now he felt more anxious. Something wasn’t right. Something was severely not right. 

He turned his attention to the book. He slid his knife into his pocket and picked it up. He let his thumb glide over the perfect leather of the book, it’s patterned ridges feeling natural against the skin of his hand, and placing it back down on the desk, Stan let the tips of his fingers travel to the edge of the book, watching his own expression cautiously in the reflection of the gold cover, as he curled his fingers around the edge and lift the cover to look at the pages inside-

Stan let the cover fall as he heard a bang from under his feet. As quick as his hands were, his knife was armed once again and he picked the book up to stuff it in the inside of his coat, which was a large pocket he crafted to make shoplifting a bit easier. His volume, the largest of his worries, echoed with each step within his ears like a ticking clock in an isolated room. Instantly, he kept his back against the wall as he shuffled sideways, facing forward with the expectation of encountering a deranged Ford, or worse. If he remembered correctly, the edge of this wall he knew hid a room behind it where he left his brother, stupidly unrestrained and yes, having a sublime urge to hurt him when he awoke from his current predicament, nestled sloppily among the couch cushions with a thin trail of blood from his nose. Hopefully, he was still among the cushions or at least walking around. Looking for him. But surely he would have made a sound. Unless he expected his brother heard the noise earlier. Stan breathed in quietly and held his breath as he rotated his head around the corner.

But found no one there. 

“Fuck,” Stanley felt himself mutter, whipping his head back around and keeping it to the wall. Stanford wasn’t there. He hadn’t heard him move. Not a groan of pain or even the floorboards creaking with movement while he was in the restroom tending his arm. But yet, the sink probably blocked it out. Or the deafening agony when actually removing the head and sealing the wound, which felt like it was pulsating in the wrapping. Where was his brother? Where was he? He had to get to the bottom of this. And quick. Distancing himself from the wall, he kept his knife armed as he ambled on through the shack, his heavy boots the only sound noticeable, which made his blood run cold in his veins. Stanford wasn’t the enemy here. Whatever was causing this was. He wasn’t going to defend himself from his brother. Only the evil behind this entire circumstance. Stan’s breaths were soft and emitted through parted lips, while his footsteps clung close to walls and furniture, silencing any drastic sounds that were present within the floorboards. Stanford wasn’t the enemy here.

Stanford wasn’t what he was hiding from. 

And that’s when he saw it. An open door, a downward facing staircase. A lump in his throat when he suspected his brother was down there. There was a sudden reason why he heard whatever he did under his feet. Why he had closed the journal. He felt himself being pulled.

Right

To

The 

Staircase

And

Downward.

His feet took him. 

An unconscious act led him to drag his boots across the wood floor and down the staircase, which audibly let out its own disapproval of him descending further. The air suddenly held thick, as it contrasted to the extreme lack of heat upstairs. But… it wasn’t warm. He wouldn’t know how to describe it. It was tense and busy, still, the cold hung in the air but not at the degree it was upstairs. It was supernatural, to say the least. It weighed on the back of his neck and to his shoulders and down his spine and Stan couldn’t help but look over his shoulder to find nothing following him. He was isolated and alone, which heightened his senses to an immeasurable degree. Suddenly he could feel his heartbeat, as strong as it was outside, concealed in the snowstorm, and he could see his breath, visible in the frozen shack as it was with the falling winter. He was not sure if this was fear or suspicion. He could only venture downwards, watching the light from the lantern that hung inside the entrance pool behind him and shrink out of sight as he was faced with the last of the stairs and an elevator, perched so neatly in the center of the hallway he came down. It was almost artistic; in a condescending and malevolent way.

“What the hell?” Stan whispered, and again he looked behind him to see nothing followed him. He resisted calling out his brother’s name. But he swallowed the lump in his throat as he opened the elevator and hesitantly strolled inside. His hand had begun to tremble as his knuckles grew white on the knife’s handle. He waited before the elevator doors shut it’s maw, enclosing him inside before it cascaded at a snail’s pace, its tongue of absolute darkness wrapping itself around his limbs and face, eventually blinding him to the mercy of the atmosphere. Curiosity trickled in his mind, transmitting itself through his brain and to his fingertips and past his eyes down to the tip of his tongue and in his nostrils, settling in the center of his ears. Open. Expectant. 

It stopped. 

The elevator opened its jaws and Stanley stepped out into a room of equipment that bore similarities here and there to the ones upstairs. They were lined with buttons and inner mechanisms that looked futuristic and foreign to him. Their dimmed lighting gave the room enough light to see around, yet his eyes strained to adjust to the maze of wires and cords and ropes that wound up like serpents around a large control panel which was set in front of a window to seemingly another world beyond it. The wood was thankfully replaced with a hard concrete flooring, which would aid him in concealing the sound his boots made against them. 

What was this all? It was strange and unnerving, but so incomprehensible considering in just recently a “networks of networks” was rumored, which had newspapers buzzed, and he thought a supercomputer was that stuff that we stole from the Russians or whatever but apparently if you brought that up, people would be livid (however, the majority of those he’d come across secretly denied it having the possibility of it existing at all.) This was technology on a higher plane, and it would explain all the sketches and plans he’d seen strewn throughout the shack. This was the man on the moon type stuff, the existence of government space travel to beat the Soviets he was hearing about at the same time Stanford was graduating from high school. Or that Stanford already had graduated from high school. He then assumed this much technology, whatever the purpose, was not done by his brother alone. 

The all-knowing eye proclaimed government interference, and if Stanford was either concealing secrets from the United States or providing it to someone else, it could explain why he was acting this way. He was intelligent enough. It wouldn’t surprise Stan if his longing to be part of a bigger picture put him into politics. Especially at this time when it seemed the country was advancing at such a rapid pace and so, of course, there had to be geniuses in there. Watching over everyone from space. If there was anybody up there it was the prying eyes of the president or other government dogs that lied freely and were able to get away with it so of course, they needed to up their representation a little bit. The commies did horrible and inhumane things to people over there, so he’s heard from the mouths of people he passed on the street, and scars that tore open one’s mouth was not unpredicted. But those were just his assumptions chiming in once again. Why Stanford would be acting the way he did. 

A personal project, a debt to pay to one of Stan’s own enemies, money troubles, government interference, the possibilities seemed endless. And overwhelming. Stanley pushed on through what was alien. What wasn’t right. Each step introduced more mystery. 

He wanted it over. 

Quickening his pace towards the other room, he held his knife firmly and close to him, as his gaze narrowed and he approached a dim yet fluorescent light, brighter than what the machines had to light up their station, but rather this light was unnatural and unpowered. Whatever it represented wasn’t in use and therefore, hopefully of minimal threat. Getting close to the control panel, he looked through the window at a looming triangular machine, it’s center hollowed out while symbols that lined the spherical shape were as unfamiliar as anything else he’s seen. He knew a bit of Russian, enough to get out of a sticky situation, and though he thought it was Russian at first, he decided against it after a longer look.

He couldn’t make any sense of it.

Slowly he slunk around the control panel and into the doorway of the other room, averting his eyes from the machine and from the dimly lit symbols and other attributes of the assumed spacecraft. 

Which was a dire mistake, as his heart plummeted at what he saw.

And he stopped.

His brother stood, calmly, back facing him and staring upward at the great piece of machinery, with both arms folded neatly behind him, as he did naturally and that stance was so ingrained in Stanley's mind because of how Stanford would hide his born polydactyly. That man standing there was Stanford. 

Stan could make out all six fingers of his enclosed right fist being grasped by his left in the dim royal light. His eyes widened as he took a step back, holding his knife out in front of him. He didn’t know what to do. His brother obviously called him here for some unknown reason. His desperation echoed off that goddamned postcard and so Stanley came. 

But now, he felt like he knew his brother less than all the strangers he’s encountered since their parting.

Stanley continued to inch back towards the control room. 

Maybe he could get to the elevator.

He quarreled with himself on whether to stand his ground and call Stanford out on this bullshit or run back into the snowstorm and ditch this whole mess before he got too wound up in all of it. 

This was something bigger than him, he could tell. Something wasn’t right. 

Something political, something paranormal, he didn't care. It was too much and he wanted out.

His injured arm brushed the doorframe and he winced. 

Stanford’s head jerked to the side. 

And suddenly Stan was still again. Tense. Ready. He knew he could outrun him. But he also knew he could take him. But did he want to? No. Not really.

He wanted to get out.

But his brother needed him.

So what? Get out of here. This was some major trouble you don’t need right now.

Get out.

Get

Out

Of

Here.

“I know you’re there.”

Stanford spoke, in his natural deep tone and Stan’s gaze turned into a glare of pure suspicion. His brother sighed and continued hesitantly.

“I’m sorry about my behavior earlier.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow, and even though he willed himself to keep alert, he felt his senses calm with what was a bit of relief as Ford showed some signs of being somewhat stable all of a sudden. His grip loosened on the knife and he scowled, facing his brother with hostility but with acceptance, eager to hear what he had to say.

“What do you mean sorry? You were out of your fuckin’ mind.”

“I know. You startled me. Don’t take too much offense but…” he paused. “Your face. How did… those scars… happen?”

“Some thugs got pissed I sold ‘em some shit, alright? It’s been kinda a thing I do now. It’s no big deal for me,” Stan took a couple steps forward and held the knife a little higher again as he kept his gaze locked on his twin. “But apparently it has been for you. What’s going on, Ford? What is this all? Can we talk this out?”

“How’s your arm?”

Stanley scoffed. “What do you think!? You shot it with a fuckin’ crossbow! It hurts like absolute hell!! You’re paying the hospital bill, you hear me!?”

Stanford paused once more and Stanley could see one of his cheeks pull into a grin, one that stretched his face in a peculiar way and immediately the tension returned, Stan’s blood turning to ice. How was that supposed to be amusing?! He just snapped at him while he’s here in agony and all Ford could do was smile like that?! It was like Ford knew Stan would never go to a hospital willingly. It was like he knew Stan didn’t have the money. It was like he knew Stan was wanted in almost every state. Stan grit his teeth as he clenched his fist around the knife when he felt his anger rise again. The outline of Ford's face was illuminated in the dim lighting, but if not for the unnatural way his expression was, Stanley would have seen no alterations. As quick as Ford's glee came, it was gone, in a struggle to vanquish it and it left him with an open frown, teeth together as he turned slightly to face his twin. 

“I can help you with it. You must be fearing it getting worse. I regret shooting you. Truly. I wasn’t thinking and I’ll get you the help you need. You only came here to help me. I’ve missed having you around. I was looking for you. I’m just happy you’re okay.”

“You… what?” Stanley lowered the knife hesitantly, still feeling the absolute rage sit behind his eyes. He let out an unbelieving huff and a critical smirk. “Wait, wait, wait is this really Stanford I’m talkin’ to? Ol' Sixer? I wouldn't believe that after earlier.”

“Yes it is. And I mean every word I say, Stanley. I truly am sorry.” Now fully facing his brother, the lighting illuminating off of his brother’s cracked glasses, Stanford smiled once more. “I’m in trouble, Stanley. I need your help. You help me. I help you. Simple as that. We got a deal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day another chapter and Ford's acting a little weird now hmm
> 
> (Just to bring a pinch of background into this! In the 1980's scientists were expanding on the first comings of the internet to be able to transfer files to and from computers, with the world-wide-web being announced in 1991by Berners-Lee. What Stan is referring as what "we stole from the Russians" are the ideas that followed after the communists sent Sputnik into orbit in 1957 and that they were advancing in a different kind of technology than the Americans were. After Sputnik made advances in radio-transmitted signals, Americans made large advances in their departments of science and technology in fear of Soviet intervention on phone signals being tapped or destroyed. I assume Stan grew up hearing so much patriotism from the Cold War, but didn't get too much into everything, so he adopted enough of a patriotic bias. However, in terms of lying presidents he's referring to Nixon and his Watergate scam. aight my history stuff is boring and should be kept for school haha)


	4. Convincing

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no.”

Stanley grit his teeth at the annoying closed grin his brother shared with him. Such a tasteless joy out of seeing him clutching his arm like that after prying the arrow out of his skin. It was a mild inconvenience to Stanford. He treated it and looked at it like accidentally stepping on a tack you have to take out of your foot. Getting a splinter in the palm of your hand. After _he_ was the one that sent the arrow flying. Sure, Stan was able to patch it up. But it was still a wound. A wound that not only bound itself into his skin but into his chest, where it severed his heart from the rest of him, letting it loosely sit in the hold of his ribcage. He was given no information, just a measly offer that was so hollow in comparison to all the scams he’s done, even if a true conman wants to hold as much information as he can. If this was Stanford’s funny way of mocking him, he was certainly not fucking laughing.

Stanford’s smile dropped. “Stanley, I want to help you-”

“Well, maybe you could tell me then what’s been going on here, huh?!” Stanley snapped as he took a couple steps towards his brother. “What is all this?! There’s nothing about this I understand and trust me, I’ve been around. I’ve been to places you’ve never even dreamed of being! I’ve been through things you couldn’t even imagine happening to you! Yet this doesn’t make a lick of sense. So how can I help you? Or WHY would I help you? Your first impression is shooting me with a crossbow after sending a-” he quoted with his fingers, “‘thought out’ letter asking me for my ‘ much-needed assistance’ and you’re ‘startled’ by something that, big surprise, doesn’t affect you in any way! Geez, Ford! You think I’m a moron? God, if you weren’t my brother I’d have to hold myself back from beating you to a fuckin’ pulp!”

Stanford stood there, expressionless, thinking, as the corners of his lips twitched. Either in joy or hate, Stan wouldn't care because he was raving in how much of an idiot his brother thought he was. Ford stood there, unresponding. He sighed. “Stanley if you knew why I shot you… you would understand. But it’s…” He gave up and smiled. “Difficult. To explain. If you would just trust me, and calm down for a moment, I would explain it to you.”

“Then why do you think it’s so funny?”

“Funny?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Stan huffed and furrowed his brow. “Whenever I get the slightest bit angry with ya, you’re smilin’ like a kid in a candy store. Jesus, Ford. It’s so fuckin’ obvious. You mockin’ me or something?”

“No! No, Stanley, I’m not. Look, it’s not funny. I understand your anger over that. I just can’t focus. I’m happy you’re here, is all."

"Uh-huh."

"I’m happy you came. I’m happy you didn’t leave.”

“Then why’d you shoot me?”

“I wasn’t thinking. Stanley, I was scared. I’ve been scared. It’s the person I’m in trouble with.”

“Who is that?”

Stanford paused and his smile grew, stretching his face into something awful. It was honestly creeping Stanley out and he contemplated leaving again. A tear slid down his face from his brother’s right eye, dark in the dimmed light of the machinery behind him. Stanley eyed him like a tortured dog, who's been whipped before, and Stanford was holding the stick. He wanted to trust him. He did. He wanted to trust him. But this man shot him and now was making a plea. Maybe he was being stubborn, but his brother was not making this easy at all.

"Oh my god just ANSWER ME, Ford! WHO IS IT?!" Stan snapped and his brother fixed his glasses and slid his hands right where they were behind his back as his voice quivered. Stanley had to remind himself again that it was the evil that was at fault and not his brother. He was defending himself from the threat and not his twin. He cursed himself for snapping at Ford, but something had to be done.

“His name is Bill. He’s been plaguing me for some time. He comes around now and again to hurt me and demand to see the research in my journals…”

Stan was quiet, hoping Ford would continue as he trailed off. 

“... He’s done horrible things, Stanley. I don’t even want to get too much into them.”

“Stanford.”

"H-he's the reason I shot you. I can't... express... how sorry I am. I'm just happy you're here and he didn't get to you-"

"Stanford."

Stanley watched his twin watch him, with that god awful giddiness about him. He immediately grew concerned when he saw Stanford’s tears and resisted stepping forward to comfort him considering the circumstances. All he could do is press him for information. Show that he was indeed trustworthy. Show him that he wasn’t working with this Bill person. He thought of aliases. He thought of anybody he’s met before. But he couldn’t imagine anyone making this stone cold statue of a person even remotely shed a tear.

“What’d he do? Tell me.”

Stanford sighed and chuckled a bit, it sounding choked and sick as if it emanated from a diseased throat, clogged in the aftermath of a cold. “You’re really making this hard for me I have to say, Stanley.”

“What _don't_ I make hard for you?” He snickered pathetically in response to his brother’s laugh.

“Alright, I’ll give you that.” Stanford wiped his tear on the back of his hand which Stanley noticed black gloves now covering them, before being bear and frail. “Whenever he visits he takes delight out of my torture. How I fascinate him. He does this as he leaves me codes and scribbles, hoping that I will have what he needs. I’m sure you’ve seen more than I’ve wanted you to while you were upstairs. I can't hide from you and might as well lay the cards on the table. I thought you would be down here when I came to. But at the door... I thought he was you. Then I thought that he put those into your face. Then I thought you were here to do it to me.” His brother’s smile again deteriorated, stilling into an open mouth of clenched teeth as if he was disturbed or plagued by discussing Stan’s scars. “He would do that to someone. I’m now even wondering if he’s done it to you. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Bill, bringing us back together like this.”

Stanley knew it wasn’t possible. Or could it be? No, even if it was, he couldn’t recall the names or faces of who did this to him. It was useless and would continue to be so unless this Bill guy showed up right now, claiming that he did, in fact, tie them both together. 

“So... what do you need my help for?”

“I need your help to turn this machine on. That is the only way to get rid of Bill. I can’t do it myself. These things,” he scrubbed at his eye once more. “These things are too weak.”

“Things?”

“It keeps shutting off, I mean. I need to work with someone. You’re the only one that I trust. He… is sabotaging my plans. My future. He wants this machine… off. And I don’t get it. It’s what I’ve worked for. You don’t understand. Tirelessly. For YEARS. I’ve worked on this. I need it on and I don’t have much time left.”

He did understand. He's had plans that involved them getting out of New Jersey for years but now it just seemed like Stanford got rid of those and replaced them with this new plan. That he obviously felt was more important to work tirelessly for than completing their ship. Stop thinking about it. Focus on what's important here. 

"Really?"

"Yes, Stanley. Everything's been leading up to this and it's _crucial_ that I get on it."

“But how will that even help? What is this thing?”

“It’s… well. I can’t say much without giving it all away. I trust you it’s just I don’t want to say too much.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. Stanford sighed.

“Fine. Think of it as a gateway. To a new type of energy. It will change how you see and live in this world for the better. How humanity will live.” Ford pronounced. Great. Another project. Something else he would have to look at for nights on end like the one that sat on the desk in their bedroom, as he glared at it from the bottom bunk, knowing upon its creation it could have the potential to award Ford yet another prize, something to knock Stan a level lower than he thought he was at in terms of usefulness. Now knowing the consequences of the first, if this was all Stanford called him for, he was hesitant to even want that burden again, on top of Ford calling Stan out of his way to invest him into another project that would only benefit Ford. Stan tried to hide his disapproval with a weary smile.

“Sounds… weird.”

Ford smirked, with the other edge of his mouth twitching eagerly to once again model his excitement. “Exactly!! It’s weird. That’s exactly it. And with your help, this world will see the greatest power this dimension has ever known.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait. World?” Stan huffed in disbelief, putting his hand on his hip and redirected his attention upward at the looming machinery. “Some plans you got. Almost like you won’t be needing me much afterward. I mean… a new energy source is what I’m assuming? Yeah, sounds like some crazy weird shit. But you know… it’s genius. Not really out of character for you.”

“Actually, Stanley.”

Stan looked over at his brother, who was facing down, and the glint had disappeared from his glasses, and Stan looked into his eyes, shadowed by the lighting in the room. He looked pitiful and Stan actually felt some sympathy.

But something else was off. Something he couldn’t blame on his brother’s symptoms of illness. He couldn’t quite detect it. He squinted to try to get a better look at Stanford but his brother’s eyes closed slowly and his eyebrows crumpled together as if he was in pain. Like he might faint. 

“Stanford?”

“This body is so weak. It’s inconvenient. I have to keep working.”

“Well, maybe you should go lie down. Uh, get out of this basement. Right? Maybe I can get you something-?”

“NO! I have to finish this. I need your help while I’m still awake or he’ll come back!” 

“Look, maybe it would be best for you to just get just a little bit of shut-eye. I’ll stand guard, make sure no shady characters come wanderin’ in, stealin’ your work or whatever you’re so hyped up about. It’s nothing that can’t wait ‘til morning.” Actually, he wasn’t sure if that was one hundred percent true. This project wasn’t any magnetic anti-gravity stand or baking soda volcano. This was something a lot bigger and Stanford fearing that someone was determined enough to drive him mad was justified. However, he wanted to press on, as much as he cursed himself, he wanted to push his brother more to the limit for information. For something other than empty threats of an unknown imposter. He wanted to be swayed into helping, though he knew he would help either way. It was his brother after all, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him. But he wanted to WANT to help his brother.

“It can’t. It can’t wait until morning. I need it on now.”

Stanley didn't respond. Maybe if he stayed quiet, Stanford would get the hint and elaborate.

Stanford paused, rubbing his temples. "Look, I wasn't going to say this but it appears I need to. This is such a big deal because well-" Ford lifted his head back up, the glare of the lighting behind him coating his glasses in a thin milky blue. “Stanley. You remembered how when we were kids we would always dream of sailing away on a boat?”

And that was it.

Hook.

Line.

And Sinker. 

Stan felt his heart stop. Or he believed it to stop. Since he couldn’t feel anything. He was numb. Numb to the fact a warm sensation filled his body completely and swiftly. He felt it faster than any speed he’s ever run, and higher than any car’s acceleration. Such as the warmth when the bell rang for dismissal and he saw his brother standing on the Stan'O’ War, waiting for him after he’d come home from detention. It was the warmness felt during his first kiss with Carla. To finally securing his first thousand before losing it all and knowing that even though there was nine hundred ninety-nine thousand left to go, he was closer than ever to making it back home. To every time he saw his car parked where he left it and not stolen or destroyed. 

He almost whispered. "Yeah. I remember that."

Remember that? No! He idolized it. Hope. He couldn’t stop a genuine smile when it happened. He thought it’s been years since it has. And then all the pain diminished. He was netted, like a fish that was going to be thrown into the open ocean. Finally, from the entrapment where every day he would swim from glass to glass in his tank, wondering when the day would come where man would get hungry enough to skewer and eat him. No, this time he could be out among the waves. He could feel hope. He dropped his knife but didn’t think of it.

“I just need your help with getting rid of him and we can still do that. We can just get on a boat and leave. If this is it, if this is my project that will change the world, I will have no more work. You didn't really think I forgot about it? No, I've been trying to make it happen!" Stanford laughed. "I will finally get what I want and then you can get what you want. Remember what you said? Beaches, babes. Millions of dollars in gold. Power to go about as freely as you please. Everything will be yours. You can finally stop living like you do now. You can finally have forgiveness for destroying the project.”

The genuine smile dropped and his eyes widened in pure and complete surprise. 

Forgiveness. 

“Did you hear me, Stanley?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be forgiven. 

“I said I forgive you.”

“Gee, Ford…” He snorted and chuckled, feeling tears well in his eyes. And god, he wanted that to stop as soon as it came but there wasn’t any rational control left in him. Ten years and through freezing winter nights in one state and scorching summers in another, this is all he ever thought about. No, that was a lie. He thought about overcoming enough obstacles to get to this part but this is what he dreamed about. Probably not here. Not like this. Again, maybe over a beer in Ford’s mansion, he’d thought he earned after his school was done and some university would grant him a large sum of money to go start his own multi-million dollar company. Not like this. Not when Ford was ill, frail with unnerving facial movements and before, acting like someone who had just escaped from the asylum. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

“Stanley?”

This was all his fault. If he hadn’t destroyed that goddamn project.

“Yeah. Yeah. I hear ya. You… you really mean it, Ford?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been wanting to contact you for years, but now at our most desperate time, I can get over what you’ve done and we can get a good end out of all this.”

“I almost don’t know what to say to that, Poindexter. I... I really don’t.” 

“All you have to do is say yes.”

Time stood still.

Stanley nodded, at first slowly, but then sincerely within a matter of seconds. One last time, with no extra steps, there was just one final obstacle in their way to spend the rest of their lives in happiness and peace.

“Yeah. I’ll help you. This one time. And one time only. You owe me, Sixer.”

“One time is all I need.” 

Stanford wouldn’t be living like this. 

“Then,” His twin said, “We have a deal.” Stanford let that monstrosity of a smile overtake his face again, stretching his cheeks, yet he seemed so determined to keep upright and Stanley knew he had to help. Then they’d be together on their boat. Just one last step. Stanley walked toward his brother slowly, Stanford reaching his hand out to him. For him.

It was all going to be over. 

Leaving the past down here in this basement. 

After the project, after the curtains, after everything they’ve been through. There was finally redemption. There was something that was worth smiling for. There was something worth crying for. There was something worth FEELING for. Stanley held out his hand towards his brother-

Then again…

Why did he have to carry all the blame?

“Stanley? Is something the matter?” 

Wait a second. All Stanford could talk about was what HE’S done to hurt HIS future. It was again, Stanley taking the weight of the issue, including being the one to decide whether to help the one that abandoned him.

He felt the room, that was once bright with hope and joy, darken at the edges, sending his mind into an abyss of confusion and hatred. He wasn’t an optimist but Stanford had so much talent, so many recommendations, so much love and adoration from family and teachers, wits that could outmatch even the most intelligent of professors. Hell, if THIS was his new project, one that was so large with such a promising result for the both of them, then, if he knew his brother right, Stanford wouldn’t even allow him to look at it. He had always viewed Stanley as the pinnacle of his failure, and that obviously wasn’t changing anytime soon. 

Disgust crept through his chest and drowned his heart in a sea of muck and filth, and it was like staring into the mirror again. It was like looking at everything he's been through and knowing that it was all his fault when Ford could have at least sucked up his pride long enough to just contact him earlier. But how did he get his address in the first place? And wouldn't that be a story to address. 'Dead End Flatts New Mexico' what a joke. Did his brother just look up the place and assume that's where Stanley was? If so, why was he right? And how could he even think it was Stanley hiding behind the alias? He was hiding from Rico and his goons, there was no one that knew of his whereabouts unless it was 

Someone that wanted him dead.

That wanted him to come here. That wanted him to help Stanford turn on that machine. It had to be a trap. There was nothing else it could be. Stanford had set him up in this awful and confusing way. He needed more information. Hopefully, something to prove this entire position wrong. There were so many holes in his brother’s offer and yet he was just about to run in blind under a little forgiveness?

But… it was still forgiveness. This was still Stanford. This was his brother. His twin. Someone he craved to spend the rest of his life with. But still...

“I still can’t, Ford.” Stan lowered his hand slightly, speaking sternly and he saw his brother’s smile drop into something that was shock. And then rage. All the more vengeful than what he was greeted by. He swayed even more violently and clutched his head with the hand that wasn’t already extended, growling, his teeth clenched and grinding, so hard Stanley could hear the friction of his back molars grinding the ones above it to dust... 

This wasn’t right. That wasn't right. Everything about him. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t Stanford. This wasn’t right

"If you really are Ford."

This was someone that wanted him dead. 

And if so, where was the real Ford?

"What?!" Ford growled. “No! NO! I don't care if you've figured it out! I don’t care if you won't!!” Ford spat and looked around at himself frantically before narrowing his eyes back on Stan, “I don’t have enough time. You agreed!! That’s good enough for me!” Stan took a step back in alarm when his brother lunged at him. 

He was pulled towards his brother, and their noses were mere centimeters apart. 

That’s when he got the first good look at his hideous glowing gold eyes. 

The piercing yellow light was blinding him as the eyes were wide open, cradling irises that were blackened slits. They stared at him, unblinking and stretched, causing strain on the rest of his twin’s terrifying countenance. He was now to find out that it was not tears but blood that had rolled down Stanford’s cheek, as the darkened, smeared gore had accumulated around his eye and yet continued to pool in his socket. Stan could just picture the grotesque grin that pulled at his brother’s cheeks such as like he’s seen before.

A trembling six-fingered hand grasped his own. 

His brother giggled in a high voice behind clenched teeth before laughter bellowed from within him and Stanley ripped his hand as fast as he could from his twin’s, choking on his own words and stumbling backward. His legs gave out from under him and all he could do was look up at Stanford, who was emitting such a strong and powerful laughter, with pure horror. That was not his brother’s voice. It was twisted and inhuman like someone had laced it with pure insanity. If anything, it was a stranger’s. 

Why was he so late to figure it out?

Oh god. What had he done? 

“I knew it! I knew you’d be so D̵E̴S̴P̵E̵R̷A̷T̷E̴, Stanley Pines!! And you tried to get out last minute. Shame on you!! ” Stanford spat and drooled, saliva and blood dripping on the floor as his laughter again resorted to those chilling giggles in between his words. “It will aaaall make sense. Just give it a moment. See you in a bit. Get ready for a little C̶H̷A̴O̵S̵.”

And Ford rocked back and forth once more before collapsing forwards onto the ground, blood now creating a small puddle on the floor by his face. The machine in the back seemed to loom over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey billy-boy.
> 
> sorry for throwing u guys a red herring I just
> 
> couldn't help myself
> 
> it takes a conman to con a conman


	5. Consequence

That wasn’t Ford. He knew it for a fact now.

However, nothing stopped Stan from scrambling towards his "brother", kneeling down in front of him, the packed dirt from the ground scraped against the knee of his black jeans. His terror and shock proceeded his rationality, and after all the times he wished it hadn't, this was not one of those times. Because he had a feeling that he was wrong yet again. Stanford continued to lay still.

“Stanford? Stanford! Wake up!” Stan grabbed his brother and pulled him up out of the mess that had emanated from his right eye. “C’mon, sixer…! Stay with me!”

He didn't want to use force to wake him up. But it hasn't failed him before. He contemplated slapping him awake but found that

Ford’s eyes slid halfway open, squinting at Stan with a sloppy and dazed attempt. Stan sighed in relief to find the golden gleam of the other pair was gone, yet his brother looked sicker than before. When the coughing started, it came out in a raspy tone and Stan supported Ford by perching him up to sit on his knees, unsteady and wobbling but attempting to keep upright as their gaze locked. “Stanley…” Ford began, and leaned forward, cupping his right eye in his hand.

“Stanford...! Holy shit. What’s going on?”

"Stanley? I'm fine... I'm okay... this is normal I just-" he cut off abruptly and glanced around, straightening up as he put his wrist up to his cheek and let the blood flow into the leather of the glove, pooling in his palm. Stan watched, concerned and wary as his brother removed his wrist from his eye and stared at what had accumulated in his hand, eyes dazed and colorless, seemingly drained of all emotion and life. This was the case for a couple seconds, Stan looking back and forth from Stanford's hand to his eyes and opened his mouth to speak before Stanford growled in frustration, slamming his hand onto the ground and blood streaked the earth. Due to the quick movement, Ford's unsteady frame leaned in with his arm, as if he was going to fall sideways down with it before Stan reached out quickly, grabbing his twin's shoulders and stabilizing him. He wanted to state the obvious as in 'you're not fuckin 'FINE', Ford! Your eye is bleeding and you look like you're about to die' but he felt Ford knew that. Ford looked like he was about to puke or faint again, but as quickly as that thought trickled into Stanley's mind, Ford shook his head, trying everything in his power to get everything back into focus. When he was ready, he reconnected his gaze with Stanley. “It was him… again… Stanley. It was him again. When will he leave me alone?! When will he leave me be?! I’ve already done enough for him I-” Stanford whipped around to look at the machine behind him and then drag his head back into his hands. “Thank god. He hasn’t gotten that far.”

“Him… you mean you… but acting berserk, laughing like a maniac, with yellow eyes?”

Stanford nodded. “So you’ve met him?”

“I’m assuming... that was Bill? He’s not someone else.”

Stanford nodded again, this time more hesitantly.

“He’s you.”

“No. No, he's not. He’s not. He's not. He's-" Ford leaned over, his head collapsing in his palms. "He's incomprehensible. Stanley, you might not believe me. But you must. Before it’s too late. Bill is a demon who… I foolishly decided was a companion. He’s destroyed everything. He takes control of me when he can-” Ford’s shoulders started to shake and his voice, choked, began to quiver as he continued to speak. “I can’t believe you had to find out this way. I can’t believe I thought you were working with him. I was such a fool to not trust you earlier.”

Demons... aren't... real. But out of all the crazy shit he's seen, he actually found himself considering it? If those eyes weren't the kicker, then he wasn't sure what could be. “Nah, now seeing him for the first time I wouldn’t have trusted me either.” Stanley chuckled a bit before looking sorrowfully at Ford, and placed a gloved hand on his trembling shoulder. Ford was dead serious.

“What’d he do? When he was here?”

“About that,” Stanley began. “Well…” Suddenly words wouldn’t come to him. He couldn’t speak. Why couldn’t he get himself to speak? He looked at his brother, bent over his knees and clutching his head in pain, and he knew… nothing. God, he knew nothing. He knew nothing and that fact tugged at his coat, constantly trying to get his attention and get on his nerves enough to pressure him into being still once more. Like he was when he watched the snow fall down onto his car, trapping him under a thick white down comforter that was everything but warm. This chill froze him over into knowing nothing besides the fact that he shook hands with… that thing. That thing that was in his brother. A… demon.

It made no goddamned sense.

This was a movie. This was a prank. It had to be. But it wasn't.

So what if he just found out that somebody can actually be possessed by ungodly entities who lie through their teeth (or in this case, someone else’s) and feed on the unsuspecting emotions that come from resurrected dreams that were already rotted away long before? So what if they even knew about these dreams. The dreams that were not just rotted but burned until there was nothing left of them and Stan was already rummaging through their ashes to try to find at least one small, tiny, miniscule chance that what the demon said was true. That his brother said it. That he was getting out of here with Stanford. That he didn’t deal his soul to the devil. That he didn’t scheme with someone that Stanford knew would target him in the first place and he didn’t listen.

He didn’t listen.

Now, all that Stanford said before Bill was a blur. It was as faded such like the chance everything was going to be fine. From the pain in his arm to Ford’s reaction to his face he didn’t listen. The fact that Stanford could have seen Bill while seeing Stan and how he was so frazzled possibly seeing both at the same time made sense. Stanley didn’t listen to the warnings to the fear in Stanford’s voice in their beginning. This could have gone so much better. It could have gone so much better. Allowing himself to escape from his thoughts once again, he looked down at his brother, and how his sleeves fell down a bit from where his arms were over his head and he could see thick bandages peeking out from under the fabric of the trenchcoat and from underneath the black leather gloves Stanford had on. The wrapping and gauze were gone from the restroom and that made sense.

He sighed. Demons. Not an option on his elongated list before. But it made sense. He didn't think demons would make more sense than dealing with criminals or the government but surprisingly more things clicked into place when this was considered. If he only had more time to connect the dots on how this thing was quite possibly the reason behind his address being disclosed or Stanford leaving the couch, he would have a simpler time convincing himself that his brother wasn't some just raving lunatic shifting out of an episode or actually a two-faced Jekyll and Hyde. It sure seemed that way but after what he saw Stanford's body as and how he had seen it move and behave, he had no choice but to just accept this as the reason and play along until proven wrong.

“He didn't do... a lot. More importantly, how do we get rid of him?”

“We can’t. I dealt my everlasting services to him. In order to complete this portal and provide him a vessel to further work on it.”

“Can I help?”

“Yes. You can. You have to,” Stanford lowered his hands slightly from his forehead and his eyes drifted up to look at him. From the removal of the leather from his forehead, a bloody print peaked from under Stanford's bangs, creased patterns of blood and skin mimicked the folds in the glove. His eyes were wide and desperate as they shown a silent and helpless sorrow. “Please help me.”

He had never seen Stanford like this before. Never like this. This was so out of character for the silent caring kid to the determined writer to the adventurous youth to the stoic nightmare. They've been through tough times in their childhood but nothing had caused this much emotion and CHANGE in such a short amount of time. An exception in that... one time... the time that started all this. However, this man was now a beggar and looked at Stanley like he was his last hope, in which Stan could only know that had a high possibility of being true.

“I... I can and I will. Just tell me what to do, Ford.”

“I have a journal. Upstairs. It’s leather-bound and is red and gold. I want you to take it on a boat and sail it away as far as you can. To the edge of the earth. And bury it where no one can find it. So that this never re-activates.”

Stanley was quiet.

A couple minutes ago he thought after he left this place, he’d be getting on a boat with his brother. But that was nothing more than a lie.

Now he had to get on a boat alone?

For someone whose specialty was lying, he couldn’t believe he got sucked into nothing but a disoriented fantasy. A future with his brother was nothing different than the 'working' vacuum cleaner he promised to a hundred clients or the untracked firearms he promised those gang members or the money he didn’t have to Rico and his goons. It just showed any human can be swayed by anything, and he felt like a fool. Now he was getting on a boat, alone, to sail away, to who knows where honestly, with a book that had no significance to him whatsoever except that he held it in his coat pocket and that it belonged to someone else. Someone who looked like he was days away from death. He swallowed and leaned his forearm on his knee, clearing his voice before speaking and bowing his head slightly. “Alright. I will. But what’s gonna happen to you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Stanford croaked as he sat more upright. “I trust you with my journal. Just make sure that Bill doesn’t get a hold of it,” He leaned forward, with a look of dread. “Bill could be anyone looking to get it… to bring it back. To turn it on. Promise me, Stanley,” Stanford took the front of Stan’s coat in his fists, making Stan flinch.

“You will do everything in your power to keep that portal off. You will do everything you can to destroy any vessel Bill possesses.”

Oh shit. The deal.

He remembered it. Oh shit. Bill wanted his help.

And he willingly gave it to him.

“Ford, there’s something you need to kn-”

“Stanley, you have to promise me!”

“I would, Ford! But look I-”

Suddenly, the room started to darken, and a grayscale hue enveloped the room, making both brothers rise instantly to their feet and look around in alarm. Stanford’s breath hitched and accelerated, and he clenched his fists in worry while Stanley stood beside him, motionless and taking in the surroundings before a figure appeared to meet the both of them. The three-sided golden creature levitated in front of both brothers, it’s two-dimensional tophat accompanying it by floating over its simplistic form, contrasting to the being’s four limbs that dangled lifelessly from it.

What it was he was absolutely unsure. And there was nothing he could make of it. It was something interesting and familiar, however. Then it had hit him. This was the rapid sketch that took up too many papers to count. Past every document Stanford had hidden, this thing was on every one or two papers, scribbled furiously in blackened ink to an accompanying bloodstain.

Oh shit.

And it’s eye opened with a jolt, bathing them both in a hideous yellow glow that made Stanley squint against the darkness.

“WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL! iF IT ISN'T BOTH THE P̸I̷N̴E̷S̸. GOT YOU RIGHT WHERE I WANT YOU!” The menace’s limbs suddenly sparked to life, and in one of its hands held a cane that it twirled gleefully yet it made the hairs on Stan’s body stand on end due to just what he saw in front of him.

“So. That’s Bill…” Stan muttered, and Ford’s head darted to him immediately, a look of pure betrayal clothed his expression. “Wait,” Ford stammered. “Y-you can see-”

“WELL GEE, SIXER! OF COURSE HE CAN SEE ME. WHY DID YOU THINK YOU COULD HAVE ME ALL TO YOURSELF? YOU WEREN'T THE ONLY ONE ON MY LIST OF POSSIBLE HELPERS AND PRODIGIES. NOT NOW OR HAVE EVER BEEN IN ALL OF ETERNITY!"

Stanford stiffened and Stanley reached out and grasped Stanford's wrist, softly and slowly but instinctively. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, but surprisingly found himself lost for words, with only the ability to watch the unnatural whatever-it-was in front of him.

"YOU SEE, SMILES HERE, BEING THE FREE-THINKER HE IS, DECIDED TO MAKE A DEAL WITH ME. AND, HOLD ON TO YOUR HATS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BECAUSE IT IS A G̶O̵O̴D̶ ̵O̵N̶E̸. A BIT OF A PAT ON THE BACK FOR ME COMING UP WITH IT AND A WELL-DESERVED PRIZE FOR THE MAN OF THE HOUR HIMSELF!” Bill laughed and the cane he held was incinerated within the next second by the bright blue fire that engulfed the creature’s hands and danced within the ends of his fingertips. “LET'S GIVE HIM A B̴I̵G̶ ̷R̴O̸U̸N̵D̵ ̶O̶F̷ ̵A̸P̴P̴L̸A̵U̷S̶E̷!"

The flames circled around the two, sparking into a ringed inferno and the flames began forming into a crowd of clapping dismembered hands, each turned towards Stanley, and the brothers noticed that each set bore twelve fingers with six fingers per individual hand. Ashamed and enraged, Stanley let go of his brother's wrist and redirected his attention again to the thing in the air, growling in disapproval. He could feel Stanford peering at him, however, the gaze his twin donned him with was awestruck and hurt, and Stan clenched his fists, glaring at the cyclops, his teeth bared. “You and I know it was an unfair deal! You cheated!”

“THAT'S SURPRISING. YOU SOUND LIKE YOU'RE NOT HAPPY WITH OUR LITTLE CONCLUSION. YOU SEE, I GOT THE WRONG IMPRESSION FROM YOU. JUDGING BY YOUR FACE, YOU SEEMED QUITE OVERJOYED WHEN YOU ACCEPTED. OH, AND WHEN YOU TRIED TO BACK OUT. BUT I GUESS THAT'S A PERMANENT THING FOR YOU, ISN'T IT?” Bill erupted in laughter and he rubbed his hands together, the crowd dissipating around them. Stanley looked at Stanford, who still looked like he had been stricken with betrayal. Stan opened his mouth to speak before Bill chimed in, interrupting anything that was yet to be said. “ALRIGHT! ENOUGH CHIT-CHAT. YOU AND I WILL GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER A BIT MORE LATER. UNTIL THEN, A D̴E̷A̵L̶'̸S̸ ̵A̷ ̴D̸E̴A̵L̴,̴ ̸S̸M̸I̷L̶E̸S̶!̷”

It then rushed at Stanley, who turned and ran until the creature caught up with him and everything went black, Bill’s screeches of laughter thundering through his ears and the turquoise-hued flames singing his flesh. He gripped his forehead in pain and felt himself fall to his knees, as a throbbing sensation curled into the inside of his skull, making way into his brain and then there was no more.

There was nothing for a couple seconds.

Just the faded echo of that beast’s laughter… bouncing off the walls. Bouncing in his head.

Back and forth.

Laughing at him.

Yet he saw Stanford’s hurt expression in his eyes.

Staring

Right

At

Him.

And despite knowing nothing

He knew that he could never erase that face.

The face of complete and utter

Betrayal

After connecting the dots

That Stan had never seen Bill

But Bill had forever seen him.

And it was all a trap.

Everything was his fault

again.

He had to do something to fix this

and quick.

He had to come up with something.

He never wanted so badly to just scream Stanford’s name.

Tell him he was sorry.

Yet no words were in the air as he hovered

Weightless.

The pain was gone.

And he was weightless.

He hovered.

Wait. why was he hovering?

He opened his eyes and saw his brother, staring with a panic-ridden expression directed towards… him. But it wasn’t him, he was right here. A doppelganger. An imposter. An impersonator. Or perhaps it was just his body. That mullet-haired man with the stained clothing and the jacket with one too many tears in it as well as the jeans that had been so worn yet still held on for at least another week or so. Those were his and he’s memorized every tear in the fabric, each mend he stitched himself and he knew that was him. But it wasn’t. It was a surreal experience that clouded all of his reason; all of his thoughts. This is what happened to Stanford. Before, it was Stanford that was four feet higher in the air, gazing down at the mass he didn’t have control of in that moment. However, when he- no, that THING- turned towards him, yes, towards him, or what he presumed was the real him that hadn’t a body to inhabit, he felt breathless, though he found it odd he couldn’t breathe.

Was he dead?

He might as well be.

When he let his gaze fall on that face. That monstrosity of a face. So that’s what they both saw. It was a gleaming yellow-eyed predator that stretched his face with a grin so hideous it accented every aspect, every curve, every dent of the thick and deformed scars that so caressed his cheeks like a ravenous disease had begun at the face, and the side effects of the infection was pure madness. The smile curled, straining every muscle and every tissue that had been affected by that disgusting knife so long ago and it looked right at him. Never before had he gazed at a smile that took up someone’s entire countenance; one that was gruesomely stretched from cheek to cheek and ear to ear in a horrifying picture. A piece every viewer would have confirmed double glances in speculating. That horrendous piece of shit prided every tooth in it’s beaming maw, and dare Stanley say that his face and this demon went together perfectly for a display. It was a match made in hell as insanity finally met a face to portray it and would accompany it so uniquely. He was fully sure this was the right conclusion when it started heaving in the purest of laughter.

Stanford was frozen at the sight. Helpless.

“I JUST WENT BACK TO INVITE ALL MY FRIENDS TO THE PARTY. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO MAKE A MEMO TO EVERYONE. BECAUSE EVERYTHING'S GOING TO GET PHYSICAL. A LONG-AWAITED PHYSICAL FORM THAT'S BEEN TAKEN FROM ME FOR SOOOO LONG." Bill sang, his voice typical and drowning out whatever there was to use of Stanley’s voice. Yet it was still there, he hoped, and if it wasn't then he was positive that Bill could do just the perfect impersonation of Stanford. Stanley could as well, but it was just irregular to know that another could imitate Ford’s voice as perfectly as he could. Bill walked (rather he staggered slightly with his new form) to the control room, humming as he did it in his menacing yet mocking tone.

“WHOA! HEY HEY HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT I LIKE THE MOST ABOUT HAVING SOMEONE NEW? IT'S GETTING USED TO ALL THEY HAVE HERE. I MEAN, LOOK AT THIS STRONG, CAPABLE BODY! SURE DIDN'T GET MUCH OF THAT EARLIER. BUT OH MAN DO THESE EYES NEED SOME CHECK-UPS! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN BLIND, SMILES? SURE COULD BENEFIT YOU... HAVING AN UPDATED PRESCRIPTION--!!” And as soon as he finished, Bill swung it's... no... his. His leg right into Ford’s side, toppling him over.

“Stanford!” Stanley yelled, rushing over to his brother’s side to support him, but finding only his hands passing through his twin’s mass as Ford struck the ground. Ford instantly sat up, swallowing down a series of coughing as he glared into the exhibit of madness that was his brother’s face.

“You won’t get away with this, Bill…! Not with my brother, I…! I will…”

“OH COME O̴N̴, SIX-FINGERS. YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT HIM. YOU NEVER WILL. I MEAN, NOT TO REALLY CALL OUT THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM BUT-” Bill giggled nonsensically, spurning hatred to rise out from Stanley when gazing again at his face he could barely recognize. “YOU'RE THE ONE THAT SHOT HIM IN THE FIRST PLACE. NOT ME. Y̷O̸U̸'̷R̸E̸ THE ONE THAT SHUT HIM OUT. WHATEVER HAPPENS BETWEEN YOU TWO, AS A RESULT, IS THE OPPOSITE OF MY PROBLEM." Bill gleamed as he then swung his boot into the side of Ford’s face, sending his glasses hurtling across the cold flooring. The sound of the lenses cracking was not unexpected, but it still killed him inside to see the freak skip towards them and lift them from the floor and place them on his face, glass popping off them.

“SEE, THIS IS M̶U̷C̷H̷ BETTER!” Bill taunted. “NOW FOR THAT PORTAL. HEY, FORDSY,” Bill leaned over Stanford, one eye blinking at a time as he stared down at him, who was pushing himself up from off the floor, refusing to meet Bill’s terrifying stare. “I KNOW HOW WILLING YOU ARE TO HELP, WITH YOUR WHOLE 'CHOSEN ONE' TYPE MENTALITY, BUT I'LL TAKE CARE OF THIS MYSELF FOR NOW!”

“You can’t. You can’t do this, Bill!”

“WATCH ME, SIX-FINGERS. I CAN DO WHATEVER I PLEASE. WELL HERE IN THE NEXT FEW MOMENTS ANYWAY- W̴H̸E̸N̷ ̷T̴H̴E̶ ̸W̷O̷R̶L̵D̸ ̶I̵S̵ ̴Y̷O̷U̶R̵ ̷N̵I̴G̶H̶T̶M̵A̴R̴E̸.” He then stomped off towards the control room, and Stanley rushed at him, trying everything in his power to stop his body- Bill's body- from passing into the room, to no avail.

He could do nothing else but stare.

“OH STOP IT, SMILES. NOW YOU'RE ACTUALLY GETTING TO SEE WHAT I GO THROUGH EVERY SECOND OF BEING STUCK THERE. POWERLESS AND USELESS. THAT'S WHERE YOU AND I ARE SO MUCH ALIKE! WE BOTH NEED YOUR BROTHER TO GET WHAT WE WANT, BUT IN THIS CASE, THAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN YOU AND ME. IS THAT I'M THE ONLY ONE GETTING WHAT I WA-”

Suddenly, Stanley felt something pass through him as he saw his brother launching himself at Bill, toppling him over as they both fell into the doorway of the control room. Stanford grabbed Bill’s wrists, pushing them down to the surface and screaming in his face.

“Get out of here, Bill! Leave my brother and I be!”

“OH YOU WOULD LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU, FORDSY? BUT EVENTUALLY WE ALL GET WHAT WE ASK FOR!” Bill laughed and headbutted Stanford, throwing him off. Ford grasped his head in pain but still, fury ate at him, and he ran towards Bill once more. “YOU KEEP FAILING TO REMEMBER THAT I'M STRONGER THAN YOU, SIXER. IN NOW E̴V̴E̶R̷Y̵.̴ ̶L̶I̶T̸T̷L̶E̷.̴ ̸W̷A̴Y̸.̴” Bill spun around and grabbed Stanford, holding him to one of the panels, and Stanley heard three levers behind his brother click and a buzz vibrated the room as light engulfed the outside. The portal’s exterior let out an estranged hum of activation, and Stan watched it as it began to spark through the darkness, like lightning enveloping the branches of a barren tree. The bluish hue of the piercing bright sparks allowed not one inch of darkness fester among the other room. All of this was going unnoticed by the two struggling beside him. He had to get that portal off. But Bill continued the fight below him. “YOU SIGNED UP FOR THIS, REMEMBER THAT. FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF TIME. WHO KNEW THAT THE SMARTEST GENIUS I FOUND TO BUILD MY PORTAL WAS ALSO THE BIGGEST SUCKER ON THE PLANET! NEXT TO HIS BROTHER."

Stanford bared his teeth in absolute hate as he continued to stare into the eyes of the foul demon.

“GUESS HOW QUICKLY HE OFFERED TO HELP ME WITH THE SLIGHT CHANCE OF AN IMPOSSIBLE AND FORGOTTEN CHILDHOOD DREAM. EVEN TO ME, WHO'S MADE DEALS ACROSS CENTURIES, THIS WAS THE MOST PATHETIC ONE I'VE EVER HAD TO SCHEME. AREN'T WE S̸U̶P̶P̴O̸S̴E̶D̸ TO KNOW THE DEAL FROM THE INSIDE OUT? OR MAYBE THIS ONE WAS JUST TOO IMPORTANT. IT'S PITIFUL! DID STANLEY KNOW ABOUT YOU AND M̵Y̵ LITTLE DEAL? DID YOU TELL HIM ABOUT IT WHEN YOU OPENED THE DOOR?"

Stanford shoved Bill away with all the strength he had, and Bill staggered back, straightening up while backing away back into the portal room. “Shut up, Cipher!! I refuse to hear it!”

“OH, THAT TOO SENSITIVE? T̵H̷A̶T̶'̶S̵ ̷T̵H̷E̵ ̶F̴U̶N̴N̸Y̶ ̶T̶H̷I̷N̵G̵ ABOUT HUMANS IS THAT PHYSICAL PAIN ISN'T THE ONLY ASPECT OF IT'S CATEGORY. NO, IF WORKED WITH, I COULD COMPLETELY MANGLE AND DESTROY HIS MIND. LIKE WHAT I DID TO YOURS, SIXER!”

“Be quiet!!” Stanford stomped toward Bill, and Bill did the same, grabbing one of Stanford’s arms and throwing him to the ground, looming over him as his smile seemingly grew with satisfaction. “BUILDING THIS PORTAL WAS MAKING A CHOICE. AND TONIGHT THIS WAS HIS CHOICE. YOU BROUGHT THIS ON HIM. YOU BROUGHT THIS ON ALL OF THEM!” He laughed, his typical powerful laughter, as he continued, ruthlessly. Stanley watched, while unheard and unseen, his brother push himself up yet again, coughing away the dust from the cave-like flooring of the portal room.

“YOUR PRIDE. IT DOOMED THEM ALL! NOW YOU HAVE NOTHING TO DO BUT WATCH ME TURN THE PORTAL ON. AS YOU LOCKED ME OUT OF DOING THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE. LOOK WHERE THAT GOT YOU. THERE'S NOTHING TO DO ANYMORE WITH ALL YOUR INTELLIGENCE. ALL YOUR SUCCESS. ALL YOUR WRITINGS. IT CAN GET YOU NOWHERE NOW.”

Bill continued to walk off, his unblinking eyes locked on the lever. Stanford reached out immediately, grabbing one of Bill’s boots and yanking it backward, watching the demon fall and his glasses fly off his face. Bill only laughed in response, after grunting from the collision with the ground.

“You can’t do this!! Bill, you’re making a mistake!” Getting to his feet, Stanford rushed ahead of Bill, determined not to let him pull the lever to the portal.

“AM I? AM I R̸E̶A̷L̷L̸Y̴? NO, FINALLY THIS WORLD WILL SEE THE CHAOS FROM MY VISION.” Bill had done the same and grabbed the back of Stanford’s coat, once again bringing him to the ground. He advanced toward the lever, and Stanley felt such a recognizable rage complete him as he levitated towards the lever to the portal.

It continuously passed through his gloved hands, and he grit his teeth as Bill approached him. The laughter that enveloped the atmosphere cooled it viciously so it seemed, as it was chilling even to someone who had the newfound sensations of an unbreathing spirit. “WHAT ARE YOU EVEN ATTEMPTING TO DO, SMILES? STOP ME FROM ACTIVATING MY PORTAL? YOU CAN DO NOTHING IN THE MINDSCAPE.”

“Stanley! Don’t stop!”

“IT'S USELESS. YOU'RE INCAPABLE LIKE THIS. DON'T WORRY, I'LL MAKE SURE YOU GET BACK! IT'S ALL PART OF MY PLAN.” Bill exclaimed in uncontrollable glee, and Stan heard his voice crack from how loud and how unstoppable his laughter really was. It seemed like the walls couldn’t contain it and would burst upon its volume. Stanley continued to pull the lever, retrying and retrying every time it passed through his hands. Bill locked his hands to the lever and pulled, but found…

It was stuck.

Stanley heaved the lever in the opposite direction, energy coursing through his newfound state as he found his hands resting on the handle of the lever. This exhilarating power thundered in his arms and through his shoulders, past his neck and settling within his muscles, as he hovered in the open air. He smirked and coughed out, “Got ya, Bill.”

Hell yeah. Ghost power.

“NO! N̷O̸ ̸N̷O̵! LET GO!” The volume strained Bill’s voice as the once crooked and supernatural grin shifted into a grimace, contrasting with the obvious scars on his tense and pulled face.

“Not on your life, you piece of shit!” Stan responded, but felt the energy lessening from his current state and he cursed under his breath as he felt his hands could pass through at any moment.

“Bill please, you need to listen to me! You’re making a mistake! One you have no idea how to undo!!” Stanford choked out, within a reasonable distance from the two, as he stood, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, when Bill jerked his head towards him, hands still holding onto the lever for dear life. “ENLIGHTEN ME, FORDSY. WHAT C̸O̷U̵L̶D̵ I HAVE MISSED? IT'S IMPOSSIBLE. I KNOW YOU'RE JUST TRYING TO STALL ME. KEEPING ME FROM WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN DONE LONG BEFORE."

“Look, Bill. It’s a possibility, but now thinking about it, I know it will happen. And that’s where we got you.” Stanford smirked, satisfied he had the demon’s attention. “I wanted to keep this from you as long as possible. Once you attain your physical form, you will be kept in the property of Gravity Falls. Someone like you cannot escape the barrier surrounding this town. Why do you think I chose it for my research? Why do you think you’re drawn here? Its paranormal magnet is to attract and to restrain beings like yourself in its property.”

Stanford paused. “So go ahead, pull that lever, but choosing Stanley as the one to actually activate the portal was a blunder on your part.”

Bill frowned in disapproval, letting go of the lever, just as Stanley’s hands passed through its immovable metal. “HOW CAN THAT BE TRUE?”

“You’ll be kept in Gravity Falls. That’s all the truth you need. With this town’s law of weirdness magnetism, there will be nothing you can do to spread about your plans to the universe. You’ll be as powerless as you once were, however, you CAN have your little circle of weirdness on planet earth! Slaughter everyone in the town or turn them into your twisted vision. It isn't up to me.”

“HOW DO I KNOW THIS ISN'T A TRICK?”

“Pull the lever and find out. Why would I do this now, Cipher?! To stall you from the inevitable?” Stanford looked down. “It appears I’ve lost. Building your portal, falling into your traps like a herded sheep. Now there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Now that you have Stanley. And because you've fooled him... I guess you can fool anyone.”

Stanley paused and looked at Bill, who was gazing at Stanford with a disapproving expression, the exaggerated frown and glare from his widened eyes still filled the room with malice. Remaining quiet, Bill listened on to the proposition from his previous partner.

“You can turn the portal on and create a rift between our worlds. Acquire your physical form and make do with every living thing in Gravity Falls, spreading about chaos and corruption, however, keeping it only in the sphere of this town. Or,” Stanford let his gaze lift back up to meet the eyes of the demon. “Get the equation to reverse it from me. That’s all you CAN do, Cipher. That’s all you can ever do.”

“HMM..” Bill hesitated and approached Stanford, “JUST TELL ME THE EQUATION AND I'LL REVERSE IT ON MY OWN.”

“Do you think I would ever tell you?” Stanford snapped. “You may have the fate of the world in your power, but at least I can die knowing I tried my very best to correct the mistakes I’ve made to doom the earth. I would never tell you!!”

Stanley couldn’t deny the smirk that he adopted after Stanford stood his ground. This was way beyond what he could have ever understood about the town, but seeing that Stanford’s quick wit still served him some purpose, he couldn’t help the surge of pride that enveloped him. But all of that faded when the shocking realization set in. That he has something Bill wants.

He’s trying to get Bill back into his mind.

And all Stan could do was play along.

Bill’s expression twisted, exhibiting a corrupted face coated in hatred and absolute rage as he growled outwardly in frustration. “YOU PINES HAVE TO MAKE E̵V̵E̴R̸Y̶T̸H̷I̴N̶G̴ ̵D̶I̶F̴F̶I̷C̵U̵L̸T̴. EVEN IF EVERYTHING IS ALREADY SET IN MOTION, YOU TRY TO FIGHT IT ANY WAY YOU CAN.” Bill huffed and scowled. “FINE! I GUESS I'LL JUST HAVE TO GET IT MYSELF!!"

As soon as he said it, Bill ran and took Ford by the neck, yanking him upwards to the wall connecting the control room and the portal area, dragging him up the glass as Ford choked and squirmed. He gasped for air and clawed at Bill's grip as he thrashed and his eyes, wide and bloodshot, began to close. Stanley averted his gaze, for seeing his brother suffer like that made him sick and he floated down with his crushed heart, his feet barely skimming the outline of the floor. Stanford’s head drooped down towards his chest and Bill released his body, where it plummeted to the ground, a motionless unconscious heap.

It was the horrifying sight to see Bill’s expression, once again, be clouded by that exaggerated smile as he rushed to pull the lever of the portal.

The machine buzzed to life, it’s center filling with a fluorescent turquoise that had the dark give way to its immediate shine and Bill laughed before lifting himself out of Stanley’s body, having it flop onto the surface, just as Stanford’s had earlier. Stan watched, from the mindscape, how it happened, in where the yellow triangle lifted himself out of his vessel and floated turned towards his brother, without barely a glance in Stanley’s general direction. It was now that his body lay there, and it was his, he thought, as he took the opportunity to claim it once again and brought it back to life. Breath suffused throughout his lungs, and instantly he felt the hoarseness from Bill’s misuse of his vocal cords. As if it wasn’t hoarse enough already.

Stan stood up and he saw his brother do the same, but in that jerky and rocking fashion, with those abhorrent eyes that replaced the brown ones Stan held so dear to him. The portal hummed and Stan saw some of the rocks that had littered the surface begun to float, and be slowly taken in by the portal’s powerful color.

It was a vacuum.

And Stan reached for the lever.

“DON'T YOU EVEN DARE, STANLEY PINES!!”

Stan turned to face Bill once more, hand over the lever.

And he felt his blood run cold

When Bill Cipher held Stan’s knife

In his brother’s cheek.

“DON'T THINK I DON'T REMEMBER HOW YOU GOT YOURS, SMILES. DON'T THINK I ONLY WATCHED ONE PINES TWIN... NO, I KNEW YOU'D BE USEFUL ONE DAY TOO.” Bill stepped forward, clutching the knife in Stanford’s shaky grasp, while it curved within the skin of his brother’s trembling cheek. His words were fumbled, as he tried to talk around the blade, his S’s sliding past in a sick and shh-ing manner, while the P’s were pronounced in protruding fff sounds. Stanley removed his hand from the lever and Bill smiled.

“DON'T YOU HOLD AT LEAST A LITTLE HATRED FOR WHAT HE DID TO YOU?”

Stan pressed his lips together, yet his gaze remained at war with the monster in his brother.

Bill chuckled. “YOU KNOW... HE NEVER PICKED UP WHEN YOU CALLED HIM AFTER THE INCIDENT. EVEN IF, WELL, YOU WERE GOING TO HANG UP ANYWAY. HE WASN'T THERE. YOU COULD HAVE AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT OF CLOSURE. I WON'T GET ANY USE OUT OF CARVING UP YOUR BROTHER. AND BEFORE I LEAVE, I SHOULD AT LEAST LEAVE YOU WITH THIS REWARD. THE OPPORTUNITY FOR REVENGE. THE OPPORTUNITY TO DECIDE."

Silence.

“YOU'RE LIKE ME, STANLEY. WHY DO YOU THINK WE GO SO WELL TOGETHER? IN FACT, I MIGHT JUST KEEP YOU AROUND WHEN MY APOCALYPSE IS IN ORDER. FINALLY, YOU CAN TAKE YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A LIFE AND TURN IT AROUND SOME. WHAT DO YOU SAY? JUST STEP ASIDE FROM THE LEVER."

“You know what, I might just consider it.”

“I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT SAY THAT.”

“Except…” Stan paused and snickered. “I’m nothing like you!” Stan rushed at Bill and ripped the knife from his hand, it nicking the inside of Stanford’s cheek and the blood beginning to flow down his chin. Frantic, Bill spun around, back facing the looming blue glow, as Stanley advanced towards him, rage burning in his eyes. The knife was thrown in front of him, and Stanley watched it be sucked into the vacuum of the portal.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU, STAN PINES. I HAVE EVERYTHING I NEED TO BEGIN MY NEW WORLD. M̶Y̶ ̵B̷E̴T̷T̸E̴R̵ ̶W̷O̴R̵L̵D̵. THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO NOW.”

And in that moment, Stanley’s heart sank at what he was about to do.

What he had to do.

What he should have promised to Ford.

In their last moment truly together.

With every ounce of motivation he had, he locked eyes with that menace.

He pushed the demon

And his brother

Into the vacuum of the portal.

It was then gravity abandoned his brother’s body as if it could sense the danger that thrived within it. When Bill’s feet left the ground, he struggled and his gaze flew from left to right, desperately trying to locate any means of escape as he reached out for Stanley, the lever, anything. “WHAT?! WHAT!! NO!! N̶O̷ ̴N̴O̷ ̶N̸O̴ ̶N̷O̴!!” Bill thrashed, gravity befalling him as the force took him and his vessel skyward. His trenchcoat flopped in the anti-gravity, and blood from the slice to his mouth dragged from his face and levitated in the air. “NO! THIS IS ALL W̵R̵O̸N̸G̷!! G̶E̴T̵ ̷M̸E̷ ̵D̴O̶W̶N̴!̶!”

“Nah. I’m not feelin’ it. I mean I barely understand how this thing works anyway.”

“YOU IDIOT!” Bill screeched as the waves of light lapped at his flailing limbs, bringing him in closer to the unknown of the other side. “MARK MY WORDS, STANLEY. I'LL BE BACK!! I’LL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS UNTIL THE DAY YOU DIE!!”

“Good luck.”

“STANLEY!! I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS! YOU’RE GOING TO REGRET THIS! STANLEY! YOU'RE GOING TO P-”

And just like that, the machine consumed him, muffling his words as the light then exploded, bathing the whole room in a sheet of a vigilant blue sun.

And Stan was blinded by the light.

Until the darkness once again slipped into the atmosphere and he could find it easy to open his eyes.

And the world made no sense.

The portal was vacant of life.

The silence that lasted was empty. The silence that lasted was

Barren.

Stanford was gone. As was his threat.

And the darkness that not even held the dim setting previous to its full activation

Transformed into weights

And fell on his shoulders.

Weighing him down to his hands and knees, his fingers digging into whatever earth he could

As his eyes were wide with disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bill Cheated"  
> "Oh, grow up. What, you think this is a game of kickball on the playground? You never had a chance to defeat me, fool! And you know why?"  
> "Because you cheated?"  
> "No, not because I cheated! Because I'm an evil genius."
> 
> Sorry for being a tad bit late uploading this! This chapter might be the longest one but also w/ Bill! I think Bill's possession with Stanford varied a bit from his possessions with Dipper and now Stan, as in the journal he could only get control once Stanford was unconscious. Also, while in the mindscape it showed Dipper had some influence of manipulating the puppets physically, thus the reason why Stan could keep the lever locked in place. Though I did keep to a lot of the events of canon, including Ford being driven into the portal, I can imagine Ford's re-emergence to be a little different in this AU. Though we're not done yet, with only a couple chapters left to go! Hopefully ya'll enjoy them :D


	6. Regret

Stanley Pines isn't a bad person. 

He’s just been through some shit. 

No, it was the others that were bad people. 

The others being Stetson Pinesfield, Hal Forester, “Smilin’” Sylvester Ceder, Steve Pinington, Andrew “8-ball” Alcatraz, Jack Terran, “Grinnin’” Gregory Woods and all the other aliases he’s used. 

All the nicknames they’ve given him. 

Now to add to the list whatever that geometrical shitstain called him. 

He wasn’t a bad person.

However, he just pushed his brother into God knows what. God knows where. Yet he wasn’t a believing man. Therefore God didn’t know shit. Nobody did. Especially not him. This was supported by the next hour pacing around, keeping his eyes averted from the towering machine in the sky, smoothing the scars where that demon had stressed them so forcefully only moments earlier and he had to process that he was not in his body at that time. The only body he’s ever known so personally and it wasn’t even his for a good amount of time. 

This disturbed him greatly.

That someone else was Stanley Pines. 

But it wasn’t even someONE it was more of someTHING.

That thing was Bill Cipher. A demon. Demons existed and could possess people. How long has Stanford been a product of ongoing possession? How long has Stanford been a pawn to that freak? Why did that monster have to swindle Stan into submission when he could just possess him early on? Or is that how the demon had any influence? By deceiving unworthy humans through tricks and cons. But instead of money or freedom, the demon dealt for inhabitants. And he would squander anybody he could like promising gold and power and

Dreams. 

He had to get Stanford back. 

He just bought some time by pushing Bill in. By pushing Stanford in.

They’d fight this thing together. Whatever it was. 

But Bill wanted that portal on NOW. If this apocalypse thing was true then maybe the smartest thing to do was to keep this doomsday device off and let Stanford deal with what he’s created. Maybe the smartest thing to do was just take care of his arm now which burned oh god did it burn in absolute pain, throbbing from it’s wound and with how Bill had strained his muscles in his fight with Ford. He knew he’d have to go into town and get more wrapping but that could wait. Maybe the smartest thing to do was to keep this portal off but when it came back on, Stanford would come out and everything would be fine. And if it was something other than Stanford, he'd risk his life to keep whatever it was away from this physical world. Maybe the smartest thing to do was to wait for him to come back through that gateway on his own and thank Stanley for keeping it off until his brother knew it was safe to come back through. If he knew how to come back through. However, thankfully,

Stan didn't think of himself as a smart man. 

And escaping from his delusions, he ran to the lever and grabbed onto it, ignoring the throbbing in his arm and readied himself. Once that blue light flooded through the room once more, Stanford Pines, his twin brother, would come through that portal and they could work this out. They could talk this out. Maybe it wouldn’t be on a boat or out on the open waters but instead in a crummy, frozen cabin out in the middle of a snowstorm in Oregon, and he wouldn’t be complaining. They could deal with Bill by sending him back to whatever hellhole that triangle had the nerve to crawl up from. They could be a team again and he could get a picture of what to do and they could get through this together. Don't do it. Don't do it. He had to. He had to turn this thing back on after just buying a little time. Or... he wasn't sure how much time he bought by processing the entirety of his encounter earlier. Odds were, quite possibly it was a bit safer now with any time that passed. He didn’t even notice the tears filling his vision as his muscles tensed around his wound, tightening the bandages and Stan groaned, his breath hitching as he shut his eyes as if he just looked into the sun. As if he just looked into a gargantuan, blue, triangular, humming sun and it swarmed him with its gentleness of its pale light and he yanked his grip back, pulling that fucking lever like he had earlier, all strength and endurance embedded in the metal that lit up the sun but found

It wouldn’t move.

Oh shit.

Putting his entire upper and lower body into a pulling jerk he tried pulling it and then pushing that godforsaken lever, which was glued to its post and on command to not move.

You’d have to be worthy to even nudge it, he thought. Chuckling nervously in disbelief, he pulled until his arm felt strained and numb and told himself he’s not worthy. Because he knew it. It was a sword in a giant rock, a hammer latched to the ground and it was braced into its position that had opened the portal. Wait, that wasn't right. It had to work. There was no reason why it shouldn't work. No, it's just a little stuck is all. He tried several more times but It slowly donned on him and his vision blurred with the only remnants of focus being on the holy decider. That was the position that had opened the portal to begin with. The lever was stuck. The power (or whatever was working that thing) simply went out.

The world went numb as he couldn’t even focus. Everything just acted for him, such as he was in an old black and white movie, running, staggering, but running all the same, on a conveyer belt, the belt not actually being pictured on the screen but oh god was its influence real. It created this illusion around him, like a background on a roller as he ran towards the control room, and found the levers were in their upright position. There was no script, it was like he was shouting LINE!! as loud as he could to a nonexistent director. Yet, he decided not to scream out.

He had no idea what to do. 

God, Stanford was still in there. 

With that THING.

He wasted enough time already.

Grasping all the levers, he rapidly flipped them on and off and on and off and on and oh god they WOULDN’T DO ANYTHING. It WASN'T WORKING. There had to be SOMETHING. Oh god oh god oh god. There was no god. This wasn't happening. He stared through the glass at the triangular halo with no subject. There was nothing it could don itself upon except the fleeting darkness that drowned his breaths like a gas that had just been let out through the air. And he could feel it eclipse his lungs with merciless power and found his breath accelerating as his mad hands felt buttons beneath his fingertips, some caved into his pressure and some remained stationary and within time they fell beneath the power of his palms

Then his fists

He pounded on the control panels, trying to get anything, ANYTHING to work. Where was the reset button? Was there a reset button? Nothing here was written in English. Nor Spanish. Nor Russian. Not anything resembling human language. Suddenly the smartest thing to do was to calm down and think rationally and find a code or a cipher or a key or maybe the smartest thing to do was to try everything to get it to work. What was this thing!? A portal?! No fucking duh it was a portal. A portal to what? He just wanted one thing to make sense. He wanted just one clue on where his brother was and the smartest thing was to think the time he was wasting was beneficial to have Stanford just get away from that thing. Get away from Bill. But Stanley knew that as more time went on Stanford was in more danger than he was at first.

Hurry up and get it on then. 

Your brother did it just fine. 

He wasn’t his brother. 

He felt the steel that caressed everything among the desk-like panel shake under his enraged blows. He couldn’t feel the tears streaming down his face but he knew they were there and maybe he’d be able to see better if he stopped crying and maybe the smartest thing to do was to stop crying but even if his tear ducts were dry, they still wouldn’t be able to gather much. Against the darkness, it was his own mental state that clouded his vision and he couldn’t see. Godammit he couldn’t see. 

Goddammit.

What was there to see anyway?

Goddammit.

His blows against the machinery dulled, yet he leaned forwards still, and put his palms to his eyes, cringing slightly from the jolt of pain in the wound as his right arm flexed to do so and he felt the tears get absorbed by the fabric engulfing one hand and the other lay flat on his cold flesh, where the glove was lost during the fight Bill used his body to attack Stanford with. The rest, unstopped by his trembling hand slid down his nose and his cheeks and around the maliciously healed skin of his scars and past his lips and down his neck and he was a quivering mess. He tasted the salt like it was poison on his lips. The portal swam into whatever vision was left beyond his fingertips and he realized he had wandered mindlessly out of the control room, resting his forehead against the chilled metal which bit his skin, leaving teeth marks of the bitter cold, trailing among his face and his hand when he rested it among the metal exterior as well. His right dropped, and the left was frozen there, strapped into its position by the ice that trailed along the object. 

And silence. 

His breathing calmed, although slowly, and he opened his eyes to see his breath accumulating on the machinery. He watched the lifeless gray drown out all heat he had in him, the metallic mirror clouding his reflection enough to blur it, however not to deem it unrecognizable. Whatever fire had resided in him was being drowned out by the frigid atmosphere.

And he knew he did this to himself. 

It was then that thoughts crept into his brain, pushing their way through a crowd of other contemplations that should be heard, but their user was staring blankly into the unresponding metal of an unknown device. He thought of his brother and how much he missed him. How, if he ever saw him again, he wouldn't know what to do. He wouldn't know what to say. He wouldn't know what to think. 

And that

Reminded him

That he was always destined

To hit rock fucking bottom. 

Stanley, surrendering by the numbness of the world, couldn’t remember what happened next. Only both of his fists pounding helplessly on that object, on that machine. He grit his teeth and continued to slam the sides of his fists into the grueling metal and when the crimson started the slather the gray, he refused to stop. Only his voice, soundless by his ears, seemed to vibrate through the room as it had his vocal cords. 

“STANFORD!! I'm sorry!! H-he cheated!! I fell for it, this WAS MY FAULT!”

Silence.

“C’MON!! I know you're there somehow!!! Ya gotta be!!”

No Response.

“STANFORD!! C’MON, STANFORD!!” 

And he continued to scream. Because when there was too much silence, he would talk with his fists, but when that too wouldn’t work, there was nothing else to do but scream. And yell. And rant. And grip his hair and pace. And try the lever again. And try hitting the portal once more. And trying the flips in the other room. And try the controls. And let minutes of panic turn into hours. And let the tears flood his vision again, but instead of feeling sorrow, he felt rage, cursing and spitting and crying and continuing to clench his teeth and cuss. 

No Response. 

So he cussed and tried the lever and the controls and tried pacing and looking around the portal and gripping his hair and biting the inside of the cheek and flung the other glove off in frustration and leaned forward on the desk-like area of the control panel and in a swiping motion, flung all papers off of it and leaned over the desk and held himself up. But he couldn't give up. So he tried looking at other machines in the room and trailing the serpents of cords from the control panel and looked for any English letters or hell, anything he could translate that was human. He tried the lever again but kicked the dirt when it wouldn't budge and gripped his hair in his hands and cussed and ground his teeth and leaned over the control panel, holding himself up as he stared with hate into the other room, his eyes twitching. At the pillars of machinery he knew nothing of. At his holy decider. He held himself up as he thought that Stanford was still in there, probably still as Bill or probably snapped out of it by now and if he knew his brother at all, he would blame Stanley on shoving him in. He would blame Stanley on not being able to save him and looking down on him and calling him a moron and an idiot for even falling for Bill’s trick in the first place. Goddammit, he just wanted to be thrown a rope here and climb the hell out of rock bottom because there was no point in fucking living if nobody wants him. But his brother wanted him. And he let him down.

Still, no response came.

His head drooped as his arms, one entrenched in pain, held him up over the desk as, through the window, the portal finally had a subject. 

And Stan couldn’t fight anymore. There was nothing to fight with. There was no motivation or clues, just a bunch of scribbles he couldn’t comprehend and a bunch of triangles drawn out of pure and uncontained fear; nothing more. Everything was now hazy as past his bangs he could barely see the portal looming over him and his right arm gave out, bringing him down to his knees, his head colliding with the control area’s surface. His left fist clenched as his right dangled by his side, and Stan felt something slip from his coat while in his lopsided position. 

Dragging his face across the surface to look down to the ground, a glimmering golden one gleamed up at him, along with a six-fingered hand. His brother’s. Stanford’s journal. 

He sighed.

There was nothing he could do to turn that damn thing on. 

Except maybe there was something. Something he was overlooking. Something had to be done. Hastily opening the journal, Stan skimmed through the pages of paranormal nonsense and questionable research to gaze upon the beginning diagrams of the portal. He recognized it’s looming stature but god, was nothing in this section written in English? It looked as though it had been taken down by a team of familiar and unfamiliar handwriting. Notes and calculations left by that monster, he was sure of it, and his brother in a side-by-side comradery of pure malice and deceit to be one complete author. The author of the journal was the two of them, but Stanley knew that if anybody deserves credit for these ambitions it was his brother. He wondered about the deal that Bill came up with for him. Was it like the one that had been so hastily conjured up by something who was already losing control of one body and had to take over another? No, they were completely different people in utterly different situations and so Stanford had different ambitions and desires. Bill described him as having a 'Chosen One' type mentality and Stanley couldn't help but feel his shoulders sink at how real that was and much Bill would have known about him before their encounter to actually declare that. 

How long has HE been watched? Since childhood or since their separation?

He wasn't sure and though he was curious, he put it past him. This was a time to know himself and to forget everything he wants to actually get Stanford back because he had a funny feeling that nestled within his internal organs that Bill would be back with another card to play, which Stanley would turn the other cheek in response to its introduction. Stan felt foolish for falling for his first, now thinking upon it again, but as much as those thoughts strived to call his attention, he decided to ignore them and to do all he could to continue to ignore them. He had to decipher these notes, these clues, in order to save his brother. He had to find a way to learn about how the portal worked in order to fully understand it. That and there was no doubt Bill knew how it worked. Therefore, he had to contemplate another way to turn it on for just a brief second just to pull Stanford out and close it back up. Like a bandaid. He had to find a way around the obvious procedure to turn it on or risk everything... this town and everyone in it... or worse... the world... in turning it on. Is that a sacrifice he was willing to make? He wasn't sure himself. He just continued to skim through the journal to find one clue and knit it into a plan on a much broader scale. If he was good at anything, it was finding minor details to aid him in a master escape or finding a loophole in an inevitable outcome. He had to put Bill in a personal spot up high on his list-of-people-(he knew to add demons now)-he-will-beat-the-shit-out-of-once-he-got-his-hands-on-them. He had to-

Continued in Journal 2. 

How many were there?

Goddammit. 

Maybe there were more hidden around here. Journal 2. Why not ASK him to take ALL the journals across the ocean and bury them? Why not just take all the journals and burn them? Isn’t that enough? 

He was at a crossroads and couldn’t get across because Stanford was gone. But not dead. He refused to think his brother dead. Hell, he had that… equation or whatever that Bill wanted. Stanford was useful; a genius. Something so powerful, he presumed, wouldn’t kill Stanford straight away. 

If anything, Stanley had a sinking feeling that the demon would go after him… for shutting down his portal, for disposing of Stanford. He really messed up this time. 

This was all his goddamned fault.

In realization, the room seemed to grow darker and cave in on him, as he glanced around swiftly at first while scooping up the journal and rising to his feet. It was then he started hearing whispers, incomprehensible and drifting to and from his ears, cradling the sides of his face like sandpaper and he wanted out of there. 

“S-Stanford? Is that you?”

No response from his brother. 

"Who said that? Bill?!"

But they continued. 

And he couldn’t take it. 

Stanley walked toward the elevator and headed upward, the nagging whispers reaching for him from their origin on the ground, but their reach couldn’t get him while ascending. It was sooner than later that he found himself out of the basement and walking up the staircase, holding Journal 1 as close as he could to his chest, trying to ignore how strong and quick his heartbeat got as it was now pressed to the leather, thumping hard against the exterior. That portal had to be turned on but there was nothing he could do until he found his book’s sequel. He thought it odd, the whispers on the ground, and he started to fear. 

Stanley Pines wasn’t a fearing man. 

Sure, scared and alone, on the streets as a teenager, no home or money in his pocket, Stanley Pines was terrified. He contemplated going back and he should have, the more he thought about it, but there was one thing he was more than he was afraid. He was prideful, and he clung to that pride more and more every year with every lingering thought to go back. To check up on Ford. To see, now with him gone, how Ford was going to spend the rest of his senior year dealing with the jocks and how Ford was going to remember to sleep after completing his history project four weeks in advance just to start on next semester’s work. How Ford wasn’t going to have anybody to play his stupid board game with as it was only the two of them and as much as Stanley hated the game and hated it’s math and hated how Ford always had the upper hand, he loved to see his brother happy. He wondered how Ford would deal with their father, always hovering over the two of them and nagging Ford to tell him what his brother was up to and where was he so late at night and if he was with Carla or out smoking or doing something worse and how Ford would clam up until Ma chimed in, asking Filbrick to cut it out and let her boy go study. He wondered how Ford would go out on the beach, looking for his brother after Filbrick told him to and found him, leaned up against the Stan-O-War, puffing away at a cigarette and staring out at the water…

But he wasn’t there anymore. So Ford wouldn’t have to deal with that last part. But the pride still stuck, and now, walking up these stairs, Stanford gone and demons real, he wished he went back. He wished he fell at his father’s feet and asked if he could stay, maybe working the rest of his life in an honest job so that Stanford could go to a good college and make something of himself instead of bargaining his life away to a triangle. 

Bill gorged himself on everything Stanley wished he could have done. Everything that was the life that could have been promised and he fell for it. The one trick in his life he actually fell for and it was his most personal one, one that had literally no chance of happening but he didn’t read the fine print. That creature snacked on unwariness and feasted on dreams. 

Dreams of being free and for things actually working out. Dreams of getting on the boat right now and sailing away, with his brother, for islands unexplored and for sea monsters un-skewered and for chests un-opened and for blank journals and a pen clogged with too much salt water and for hours of jokes and conversation. Hours where he could tell Stanford about his adventures in Columbia and Venezuela, the times he spent New Years in New York City and though he couldn’t get a room anywhere that night, he still saw the ball drop on 1970. He saw everybody cheer and kiss their partners and shake noisemakers and chant that it was another year they made it through. It was the first year he made it through. He could tell him about the bar fights he’s escaped and the ones he’s initiated because goddammit, they shouldn’t have figured out that was his real name. He could tell him about his adventures on California beaches and how beautiful they were at sunset, where he held the photograph of them boxing and reminisced on a past lost to the waves of misfortune and also how the picture itself was lost to the literal waves of misfortune. He could tell him about his wedding night and how Marilyn and him stayed together for about six hours before he told her about how maybe Hal wasn’t his real name after all. That and she didn’t have much of a desire for his lack of money. But she was beautiful in the covers of their motel honeymoon, but never again when she said goodbye. He could tell him about the numerous gangs he’s joined and those that he betrayed. All the mobs he’s scammed and eventually got away with it. That one biker gang he joined for about a month with that guy named Jimmy who he could actually call a friend until that piece of shit sold his ass out to the cops. He knew their jewelry raid was enough to keep a man with even a bit of morality to him awake at night but never to throw another to the dogs individually. He still hadn’t got over their moments sitting on the hood of Stan’s car and looking up at the stars, talking about how they actually wanted their lives to go and when, at the exact point in time, they lost control and didn’t find the need for plans anymore as they went off their own free choice. He could talk about his nights in Vegas where of course, he did take advantage of the atmosphere and gambled until his pockets were full, where he perfected his abilities and his quick hand to cheat when he could and when everyone playing groaned that yes, Andrew won yet again, they started to get suspicious that maybe he wasn’t being fair. And he wasn’t. And they found out he wasn’t. But before that, god, being a master at pool and poker and knowing the tricks up his sleeve excited him. Because it was something he was good at. That and maybe, possibly, this is where he could start on his million and actually make it up to Ford and though it was a little too late to be living with his parents again, he could throw his bundles of cash at his Pa and say that this shit was for Stanford and he could earn his own goddamned million. He could tell him how he's escaped trained dogs to hunt him down as he passed thick undergrowth in unknown jungles, holding a suitcase full of money at his side, unbuckled and dollar bills slipping past the tanned leather of it but he didn't care when he heard barking nearing him and he wondered how fast he could be to outrun dogs. He could tell them how he was cornered with only a baseball bat against some mob members in Manhattan and how he only escaped by jumping over a fence that seemed to be triple his height but he did it. He couldn't believe he did it. He could tell him about how he’s gotten every scar, including the ones marking his face, how they weren't from Bill and how he didn’t know he could heal them at first but he sure did heal them and though they looked grotesque and the reason why the police always recognized him (beginning at when they found him after that gas station robbery two weeks later because he left his face uncovered for the cameras) and how he always seemed to get away. He tried makeup, masks, growing facial hair and concealing them and it worked for awhile but it was always so expensive or time-consuming. However, it was the times where he was away from the crowds and the scams up in the forests in Montana, looking upon the mountain ranges that were some of the most remarkable and he wished he was that free. He wished he could tell Stanford these things.

Bill knew he wanted to tell Stanford these things. 

And recollecting on his moments when he was at his highest, it took him lying and cheating to get there. And he growled, growling turned to screaming as he realized with a sick and twisted visualization that

Maybe Bill… and him... weren’t so different after all. 

Shut up. That’s not true.

But it is. He knew it was. Or he had a sinking supposition, seeing how familiar his own body was with Bill as the manipulator. 

That beast still clung to him. That sickening gaze and twisted smile, accompanied by that repulsive lingering golden glow that was the same shade as that light of the 

Lamp that kept him awake at night, laboring at his desk. 

And he wished Stanford would just turn it off and get some sleep. 

And Stanley was staring right into it. 

That nauseating and odious glow from

The lantern at the top of the staircase

And he knew that he had to just turn it off

And get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He needs his rest now more than ever  
> Before the final chapters


	7. Dreaming

Stanley walked on the beach, feeling his toes kick up sand as he strolled, hands limp at his sides and his breath slow and smooth as he took in the fresh Atlantic air. He felt serene but lost all in one and chuckled a bit as he remembered that he was just a man walking along the shore with the bliss of a young child. He felt the wind in his hair, remnants of salt from the rocks and grains of sand from the beach intertwine magically in the breeze and it was almost like he could taste the mixture of pure peace. 

Past crunched up seashells and discarded seaweed, his walk seemed like it went on for at least an hour or two, where at times the tide would come up enough past his bare feet to lick at the edge of his jeans, covering his toes with dark and wet sand that would eventually stick like twenty cent stickers when his skin became dry. He’s seen crabs that would ride the waves to the surface, only to see him towering over them and scuttle back to their safe haven, distant from the alien that they basked upon when they breached another world ashore, longing to tell their families that they quite possibly escaped from a seafood diner in their future. Stanley couldn’t hold back his genuine smile. This universe held so many mysteries and so many splendors. 

From the glory in his mind, he lived in this universe. It was a decent escape from the dull world where he was away from the shore. Where he lived running from things that he didn’t understand or had full unwanted knowledge of. He lived with broken bones and lost teeth and blued bruises but here bones were mended and teeth were gold and skin was clear. Yet, among this paradise, where geoducks spat curses at him for coming too close to their airways and barnacles basking like beryl in the sunlight, there was something missing. 

There was always something missing. 

Maybe he wasn’t looking in the right place. 

This was an interesting atmosphere, after all. 

Stanley paused, pondering and procuring a perception of the place he was in, where New Jersey beaches fused with other states and other sands. Yet, as many beaches as he was in on the world, there was still something missing. Everything seemed normal at first, in comparison to the couple times he’s been here before. An empty beach littered with nothing but a broken swing set, in which one seat barely held on but did it still try it's hardest. Maybe if he had like a boat or something he could journey across to find whatever was missing. But he was contemplating something unthinkable. He knew it was unthinkable once he waded into the water. The waves that once gently lapped at his flesh had shown their teeth and sank them as far as they could into his skin (which wasn’t far at all), the cold having him gently wince as he became immune to their nibbling poisons. 

The water had not gotten any deeper the further he went in. 

And did not continue to get any deeper.

As his feet waded through shallow shorelines, rocks occasionally popping up from within the sand to poke at the underneath of his feet, he felt as though the ocean would not get any deeper. It seemed he was walking on water, considering how far he was into the waves and how distant the beach was to him. It was a cloudy day from the start and seemed to just be growing darker as in the clouds he could make out the faint rotating light from an unseen lighthouse just north of where he strolled. Time sure passed a bit faster in paradise and for a bit, he was curious about the life he left behind. Whether he had a family or a home or if he passed a tad bit before everyone else and that’s why he was looking for something. Because it was something he was eventually going to meet here. That or he had lost his mind and this is the paradise that he conjured up for himself rather than view a bleak future. It was nice, he couldn’t lie to himself, but something was indeed missing. 

Maybe it was the fact that he still wore that crummy stained crimson jacket, the fur all too familiar settled at the base of his neck, it unzipped and flowing gently behind him in the brisk breeze, his hands nestled in the crook of his jean’s pockets now. However, in this condition, it felt more like a robe, donned upon him by some higher being of respect and a pinch in his heart had hoped that it was him. That he was important enough now to bestow himself with such riches, rather it be the few gold molars in his mouth or his robe that had been through hell and back just to fit a king that needed its presence. 

But he was convinced at this point. What kind of a peasant could walk on water? None, that’s what. And this power was nice, if anything. This world, this paradise, all belonging to him. 

And he smiled, stretching out his cheeks in bliss, as he continued through the waves that clung so close to the ground, what appeared to be little fish swimming among the sand and around his ankles as he walked. 

And past the fog that ever so clouded the sky, a wooden shack came into his view. The water seemed disturbed by its intrusion on the scheduled pattern of its waves, so it flooded the couple of steps that led upward to the front porch, as it did with the steps to another entrance on the side of the shack. Curious, Stan continued towards the shack on the sea, staring upward at that little triangular window that fit so perfectly with the shack’s exterior but had an energy of a terrible blister that was festered and took up the forehead of a perfect face. 

He stood at the steps and gazed upward at that window, expecting a figure or whoever resided in this place with him to greet him warmly at the steps (if he knew anything about this paradise). But the shack seemed vacant, and with a powerful gust of wind, the door flew open and banged against the back wall, with at first loud knocks of the door handle on the other side hitting the wood but then it diminished to a light creaking as the door swung back and forth to the breeze’s tune. Stanley huffed in disbelief, and climbed the steps to the entrance, water splashing ontop the deck as his feet left the waves. 

He stood on the porch for a couple seconds, but shrugged and entered to find the little cabin completely deserted. Not a scrap of paper or a desk or a light was visible. No tables nor couches nor chairs or any furniture of the sort. It was all in itself vacant and foreboding, yet he wandered about it, in the many rooms that had attached itself to the place. They all were the same. Empty and abandoned. There was nothing to add to the serenity he felt in the water outside the shack. In fact, if he could put a name to the emotion he felt aimlessly searching through a house that had little significance to him, he would say he felt just a tad bit weirded out that a house would perch itself out in the middle of nowhere. As well as on the water. He heard the waves outside still fluttering gently upon the wood outside the shack, and thought the tide to rise a bit as the water pushed itself on the porch and trickled into the room he was in, residing to venture inward, as it would curdle at the base of the stairs and once again at his feet. However, the flood drew back, seemingly in fear of what was in there. 

Stanley cocked an eyebrow and eyed the staircase, taking note of each step and how it wound into an entire second floor that was just above him. Curiosity pulsed throughout his veins and he began upward, his bare feet padded upon the floorboards, hearing them gently creak under his weight as he carried on. Fewer windows were up here, assassinating natural light, and shadows seemed more intense as he looked down at the front door, still swaying with the breeze.

And then he heard a sigh. 

A deeply resounded sigh that came from one of the solemn rooms on the second floor. Peeking through each door he found that some rooms behind them were empty and some were merely locked, which posed no large surprise, as there was probably someone... or something...behind them that needn’t want to be bothered. Stanley furrowed his eyebrows and continued on, his last option being an attic entrance...

Suspiciously, he neared his body to the door of the entrance and placing one hand on the door handle and the other on the wall beside it, he peered inside.

Sure enough, a figure was seated on a twin-sized bed, perched by a triangular window, in which they were facing out. Odd, since when he saw the shack among the waves, the window had no subject, but this melancholy soul stared outside of it as though they’ve been there for awhile, slumped and relaxed, as their gaze was set on the surf. Stanley almost envied them when he entered, placing the palm of his hand on the planks of the door and gently pushing it open. The cool gray light of the outside lit the room enough for Stanley to know who sat upon the bed. 

“Isn’t it beautiful, Stanley?”

“Yeah… it sure is, Ford.” Stanley muttered and closed the door behind him, hearing it click into place, stepping closer to his brother and sitting down beside him, gently and at an arm’s distance. The bed itself was rigid and decorated with white cloth sheets, yet it lacked a pillow and a blanket for warmth. Stanford, however, continued to stare, his eyes locked upon the distant shore that was clouded by the fog. They sat in silence for awhile until Stanford exhaled a breath, as melancholy as Stanley remembered only moments previous. Stan snickered and dug his hands in his hood pockets. “You alright, Sixer?”

“I’m fine,” Stanford responded, his tone depressed and forlorn. “It’s just that…”

“What is it?”

“I wish we could have had this. Before everything went... wrong… I wish we could have just escaped the house and left dad and forgot college and just completed the Stan-O-War and just sailed the open sea.” Stanford spoke and Stanley raised his eyebrows in surprise, cocking one and smirking, about to say something snarky like ‘college was like a lover to you, you couldn’t have just left them’ or ‘yeah tell that to dad, he’d sure be proud of you saying that’ but he couldn’t get himself to say anything of the sort. He huffed and let his expression fall into a calm smile before he muttered, “Yeah… Me too.”

“You think... I’ll ever come back? And we can have this?” His brother murmured, and his shoulders sunk. “I’m in that portal now. I don’t know where I am, Stanley. After you pushed me in I-” Ford stopped at his voice cracked and pressed himself to continue on. “I was still with Bill. Why’d you push me in?”

“I had to. That little demon had somethin’ up his sleeve, I knew it. And he needed you and I know it was a dumb decision but it’s what I promised you.” He placed a hand on Stanford’s shoulder, and his brother flinched under his grasp, growing tense, in which Stanley thought to pull away but instead he cleared his throat. “I missed you. Like a lot. And I’m not sure if this is the real you but I don’t think I could leave you like this. I want to know how to turn the dumb thing on but I don’t know if I can without letting that freak through.”

“Stanley,” Ford muttered and swallowed. “I missed you too. And maybe this isn’t real or maybe this is some kind of delusion. But I know that you have one journal and you need another one.”

“Yeah, kinda.” Stan chuckled. “You think you can tell me where it is?”

“I could. But Bill-”

“Will have to try to get through me this time.”

Ford stopped silent and the tenseness in his shoulders disappeared as he seemed to droop, eyes still locked on the window. 

“C’mon Ford, now that I know about him, I can help you. He’s just a little fuckin’ pipsqueak, how bad can it be?"

He didn't respond.

"Seriously. I’ll just kickpunt him across the states and the journals can stay here with me and I’ll use them to turn the portal back on and get you back. And... everything will be fine. Everything will be fine, Ford.”

Ford continued to stare, silent, at the window.

“Point is I’m tryin’ to help you and I can’t exactly do that with you not lookin’ at me when I’m talkin’ to y-” 

Surprised, Stanley drew his hand away and looked at the window, which not only presented the view of gray skies accompanied by calm waters, but a reflected, shimmering golden glow shadowed by russet-colored bangs, which seemed to gray along with the background the more Stanley stared. 

“Shhhit.” he exclaimed and shot up, backing away from his brother. “Again? What’s wrong with you?”

“NO, NOT AGAIN. I JUST GOT HERE! DREAM INVADING AND ALL THAT. IT'S N̴A̶T̷U̴R̶A̸L̴ FOR ME. I JUST HAD TO COME UP WITH A G̷O̵O̸D̴ PR̵E̸S̴E̷N̴T̵A̵T̵I̴O̵N̶!” Bill stood up and turned toward Stanley who’s blood ran cold. 

Bill now faced Stanley, a bloodied and broken piece of glass in Stanford’s quaking hand, and the Chelsea smile cut into his face. 

Stanley felt sick. Now had he realized the window behind the demon was shattered. And the bed was gone. 

“OH, DON'T WORRY! I HAVEN'T TOUCHED THE ORIGINAL. Y̶E̶T̸. AGAIN, ALL PRESENTATION!” Stanley watched as Bill talked, twirling the knife in each six of his fingers before his brother’s eyes pushed themselves together, and his body twisted into the familiar geometrical shape of that disgusting creature, who was laughing maniacally, his voice bouncing off echoing walls. The triangular monster stretched his flimsy limbs and grunted. “SEE, THAT'S MORE LIKE IT. I LIKE WEARING MY PREFERRED PUPPET OF CHOICE, BUT SOMETIMES IT'S GREAT TO JUST DRESS CASUAL.” Stanley grit his teeth and clenched his fists, advancing towards the demon. “You’re a demented freak!”

“SURE I AM, WHAT'S YOUR POINT?” Bill laughed and straightened his bowtie. “NOW LET ME START THIS OUT RIGHT. WELCOME TO YOUR MIND! WHERE YOU FORGE EVERYTHING OUT OF NOTHING! OBVIOUSLY HAVING SOME ISSUES WITH THE WHOLE-" Bill rotated his hand nonchalantly. "-SAILING-AROUND-THE-WORLD THING. I GUESS I KNEW JUST WHERE TO DIG!" 

Stanley yelled in rage and rushed at Bill, only to find himself falling forward on the floor of the shack. He pushed himself up and scowled as he heard Bill on the other side of the room, laughing. “WOW! YOU REALLY KNOW N̸O̴T̸H̴I̶N̷G̷ ABOUT THE MINDSCAPE. AND YET, I ACTUALLY THOUGHT YOU PUT SOME WORK INTO THIS PLACE. THAT OR YOU'RE JUST GOOD ABOUT H̶I̴D̸I̵N̷G̴ EVERYTHING. KNOWING YOU, I WOULD ASSUME THE LATTER.” Stanley got to his feet before Bill extended an arm and the flooring from under Stanley’s feet curled around him, restraining him down in a morphed wooden chair. His hands were locked behind the back of the seat, cuffed to the spine of his weirdly created restraint. He struggled as soon as he processed the inevitable and cursed under his breath. He glared up at Bill, hovering now a foot away from him as he spat. “What do you want?! You already got your deal! I helped you the one time you wanted! You don’t need anything more from me!”

“NOW THAT'S WHERE WE HAVE A PROBLEM. IT'S THAT... HOW DO I PUT THIS?" Bill tapped the underneath of his bowtie, pondering for just a second before he sparked back to life. "OH YEAH! Ÿ̷́̿O̵̱̕U̷̕'̵̹̍R̶̓̇E̸͌͆ ̵͎̆W̴̍R̵̈Ǒ̴̧ͅN̸̰͎͊G!!"

A bright red eclipsed Bill’s form for just a second before dissolving once more to yellow. “YOU SH̸U̸T̸ ̸D̶O̶W̸N̴ MY PORTAL. REFUSED TO LET IT CONTINUE CHARGING UP. IT SEEMS LIKE NOW WE HAVE WHAT THE OTHER WANTS. I WANT MY PORTAL TO STAY ON AND Y̷O̴U̴ WANT YOUR BROTHER BACK. YOU WOULDN'T JUST L̴E̶A̴V̶E̵ HIM WITH ME IF YOU KNEW WHAT I COULD DO TO HIM.” Snapping, Bill had Stanford appear in the room, chained at the wrists and ankles in fluorescent turquoise locks and chains.

“Stanford!”

“Stanley, help me! Bill’s insane! He-” Suddenly various thinned spikes, sharing the chain's brilliant hue, emerged from the ground, spearing his brother’s body as he screamed and writhed. Stan struggled and watched helplessly as his brother’s wails turned into disgruntled groans of agony, while he was left impaled and bleeding out right in front of him. “Ford! No! No!!” Stan exclaimed and continued to attempt to fight his restraints to no avail as Bill laughed. 

“HOW ENTERTAINING IS THE MINDSCAPE? IT'S ONE THING I'M GOING TO MISS ABOUT THIS PLACE. THE REAL COPY IS OUT THERE! OH MAN, YOU HUMANS ARE FUN TO TOY WITH!” Bill snapped again and the body of his twin melted off the spikes, leaving a pool of blood that was once his singed carcass at Stan’s feet. Stan’s eyes widened as he stared down at the maroon mess and he felt his heart drop and his breathing cease.

“BUT I'VE KNOWN YOU. PERSONALLY, EVEN. THROUGH OL' SIXERS MIND, I COULD SEE EVERYTHING YOU TWO HAVE DONE TOGETHER! HOW DO YOU THINK I KNEW ABOUT YOUR BOAT FOR MY DEAL?"

Stanley hung his head and panted, trying to get the image of his brother’s corpse, dangling in front of him, out of his mind. He tried to forget the sight of the red slinking down the blue of whatever that had impaled his twin. And he screamed. “SHUT UP! You don’t know anything about us! About him!” He knew that was a lie. He knew it was a lie. But, god, the almost artistic way his brother had been slaughtered in front of him was seared into his retinas and he fought to get it out so that he could make sense of himself. 

“YOU AND I K̷N̸O̴W̷ THAT'S A LIE. I'VE WATCHED YOU, STANLEY PINES. I KNEW YOUR WHEREABOUTS, YOUR EVERY SIN YOU'VE EVER COMMITTED. YOUR EVERY DREAM AND EVERY REGRET. HOWEVER, HAPPILY FOR ME, YOU HAVE MORE DREAMS THAN YOU HAVE NIGHTMARES. IT GIVES ME MORE IDEAS FOR OUR FUTURE. OBVIOUSLY, YOU KNOW WHERE TO HIDE THE NIGHTMARES. THAT GIVES ME A BLANK SLATE TO WORK OFF OF.”

“Wh-what do you WANT?!” 

“I WANT YOUR COOPERATION. EASY PEASY, RIGHT? PLAIN AND SIMPLE! POINT IS-” Bill began to hover around him, like a shark encircling its next catch. Stanley stared straight ahead, glaring and keeping his gaze locked, his breathing still heavy with mixed fear and a forced bravery. He tried to calm his nerves before Bill continued. “I̸ NEED MY GATEWAY TO BE OPEN. Y̴O̴U̷ NEED YOUR BROTHER TO BE UNHARMED. W̴E̶ CAN DO BUSINESS. CAN'T WE? I KNOW YOU HAVE A GIFT IN BUSINESS. THAT'S THE REASON I̶ ̵L̸I̴K̴E̷ ̶Y̵O̴U̸! I WANT YOU TO J̵O̵I̸N̶ ̶M̴Y̴ ̴T̵E̷A̴M̶!” 

Stanley paused, swallowing and stabilizing his voice from shaking so much earlier. “Hmph. Team? There’s more of your ugly mugs I have to get rid of?”

“VERY F̴U̴N̸N̸Y̵, SMILES. YOU'RE ALMOST AS HUMOROUS AS YOU LOOK. NO, NO, NO, IT'S JUST SOMETHING I'VE BEEN PLANNING FOR OVER A TRILLION YEARS. YOU MORTALS WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND, AS YOU'RE ONLY LIVING NOT EVEN A FRACTION OF THAT TIME-”

“Wait. Wait... hold up,” Stan interrupted, “You’re a trillion years old and you haven’t gotten to your plan yet?” Stan couldn’t help the smirk that lit up his face. “No, wait, that AND you got the short end of the stick out of our deal earlier that I originally FELL FOR? I mean, I care about my brother and everything, obviously, you know that, but-” He started chuckling, leaning his head back, “THAT LONG and STILL nothing has happened yet? No wonder you need my help! I mean I’m thirty-two and I have an immortal demon that needs my cooperation with something that he just got scammed out of!!” Stanley couldn’t help but laugh, whether it was fake or real he couldn’t tell, but it was big and he felt his shoulders shake from its might. 

Glancing at Bill, he saw that the creature glowed red, glaring depravedly, and his limbs hung lifelessly at his sides. Stan took this as an opportunity to carry on with his taunts.

“Like... I thought I was the sucker here! No, because I lost Ford, you can’t touch me. You lost your chance to possess me more than the one time I offered... You actually need ME. Wow." Stanley shook his head in disbelief, snickering. "Wow. Wow. Like I’m baffled. I never thought I’d be saying this shit. Wait until poindexter hears I conned the sucker that originally had me in the first place.”

He looked at Bill, who was still steaming red, but the color itself was darkened maliciously, almost blood-like. Stanley smirked, though he swallowed nervously when Bill clenched his fists tight. And screamed.

“Y̷O̵U̸ H̴A̷V̴E̴ N̵O̵ P̶O̶W̵E̵R̴ O̶V̵E̸R̷ M̶E̸!!” Bill’s voice quaked the atmosphere and Stanley’s restraints burst into flames, him falling backward in a pile of ash. The demon’s flattened form expanded vigorously until it fit the puzzle piece of the shack and the ceiling shot off into several pieces, cascading and splashing into the surf below. It towered over him, with a malevolent and exasperated stare, which fumed steam from its cornea.

“Then why haven’t you killed me?” Stanley shot back as he rose to his feet, patting down the ashes that were left on his jeans. “Dismembered me? Scarred me? Where were you to do all of this if you know everything about me? Hell, why not just... kill my brother? He’s done nothing for me. He shot me with a crossbow! Apparently, if you don’t need us, why are you keeping us around?” Stanley advanced toward the hovering gigantic creature, who glared down at him with an unblinking eye, and the cyclops burned red, rage emanating from him like a hideous odor crossed over with a scorching flame. “I’ll tell you what, Bill. The real one who has no power is you. And I’ll prove it by restarting that portal my own way. And getting Stanford back the way I know how. I won’t bargain with you. You can do nothing. How’s THAT for ‘Part Of Your Team’?” Stanley stepped forward and spat in Bill’s eye, the demon shutting it in rage and he hovered more in the air. 

Bill Cipher growled and yelled as he glared down at Stanley, infuriated beyond measure. “T̸H̸A̵T̷ ̶D̷O̶E̶S̸ ̵I̵T̵!! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE NOW, STANLEY PINES. YOU HAVE NO C̵O̷M̸P̶R̴E̸H̵E̶N̷S̸I̵O̷N̷ OR U̶N̶D̸E̷R̸S̵T̶A̴N̶D̶I̴N̸G̸ OF THE ENEMY YOU’VE JUST CREATED!!”

“Not that I really want to, anyway.”

“WHAT YOU NEED TO DO IS B̴̟̆E̶̎ Q̸̜͛Ū̵͇Ị̷̓E̸͎T̸͖̀!!” Bill rose a fist in the air and let it fall on Stanley, who gave way under the crushing weight of the force that pushed him down. However, though he felt broken immediately, he did not feel as if he was dying. He couldn’t be killed this way. He couldn’t be killed in his own mind. Or could he? If he could, Bill couldn’t do it. Even while being a master of the mindscape he couldn’t do it. Stanley Pines knew what a cornered man sounded like after a trick. Someone who’s been cheated and someone who’s out for revenge. Stanley Pines knew humans too well. Humans struggled for hope and shortcuts, and he couldn't help but snicker in regards to this situation because it was exactly why he fell for Bill's scheme. And why Bill made it in the first place. Stanley guessed he learned something new from this. His key, his source of talent, his hook, line, and sinker... well, he figured out it could also apply to the target getting cheated as well as the one initiating the handshake. And of course, the majority of these were vengeful creatures. But the thing about some was

That they were smart.

Of course, Stan had been given the short end of the stick in many outcomes, his scars proof of that fact, but those had all been with deranged gangsters or vengeful mob members if not angry civilians who recognized him from a mile away. But never, (and there was a reason why) never, was it a triangular demon that had beaten him down. Never was he trapped in some kind of dream with a monster that he had seen while he was awake. Never was he winning at something like this before. 

And that was all the more satisfying. 

Stanley, through searing pain, pushed up on his knee to once again be standing and facing Bill, his smile natural yet twisted, as it always has been. 

“Why haven’t you won yet, Cipher?”

“I’LL HAUNT YOU UNTIL THE D̸A̶Y̸ ̵Y̴O̶U̴ ̴D̸I̶E̵!!” Bill screeched, infuriated. “YOU’LL HAVE TO FACE E̷T̷E̴R̸N̸A̵L̷ N̴I̷G̸H̷T̶M̴A̸R̷E̵S̸ AND S̴L̶E̷E̷P̸L̶E̸S̷S̸ N̴I̴G̷H̵T̶S̶!!”

“What else is new?”

“HOW WOULD YOU LIKE R̵E̶L̷I̴V̷I̴N̴G̸ EVERY H̸O̷R̴R̸I̴F̸Y̵I̶N̶G̷ ̵M̷O̵M̶E̵N̷T̷ OF YOUR LIFE EVERY SINGLE NIGHT YOU BREATHE?”

“Probably better than whatever you have planned.”

“WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT.” Bill growled but surprisingly to Stan, his hue changed back to his original yellow and his size reduced as he continued to hover well over him. Stanley was taken aback but continued to stand still, his arms crossed and head held high. He huffed in satisfaction, and mockingly changed his tone to a sneer. “What is it? Done with your tantrum?”

Bill started to chuckle.

Then he began to laugh. 

Startled, Stan lowered his arms, the once unbreakable smirk falling as the creature’s twisted and high-pitched screeches of bellowing joy broke the attitude he had previously. Pondering why even though the demon was indeed previously bested and called out, Stan was incredibly confused on how Bill was in such overwhelming glee. When his outbursts of mania calmed, he wiped a supposable tear from his eye and looked down upon him, sounding the softest that Stan had ever heard him in this form.

“Y̷o̶u̷ re̶a̴l̵l̴y̷ ar̸e̸ ju̶s̷t̵ li̴k̶e̸ m̶e̷, S̸t̷a̵n̷l̴e̷y̶.”

Stan narrowed his eyes and felt himself breathe deeply, his previous concerns echoing through his head. But he knew they weren’t true. It was just the fact that they were both deceivers.

“You’ve had to c̶l̶i̴m̷b̴ to where you are now despite hardships. You think I didn’t want to he̵l̷p̸ yo̸u̷ ou̸t̸ like I did six-fingers? Maybe that’s why you’re here. You’ve had to climb out of r̷o̴c̴k̴ b̸o̵t̷t̴o̶m̵ and you’re not even close to a w̴a̶y̸ o̴u̷t̷ compared to how some people are. Maybe you should ta̴k̶e̷ th̶i̷s̷ ch̷a̶n̵c̵e̵. Turn your life around. Be an influencer and s̶t̵a̵r̸t̷ s̶o̶m̷e̴ c̵h̴a̶o̷s̵. I know a quick way to turn that portal on and all you have to do is activate it. Then you’ll be rising to the top w̴i̷t̷h̶o̶u̶t̷ a̸ c̴a̶r̸e̴ i̵n̶ t̵h̴e̵ w̴o̸r̴l̴d̵. Just join our team.”

Besides, who wore his scars would bother him. Unnerve him. Just as they did the first time Bill and him officially "met". Their person together was his nightmare. What they could do together terrified him.

“And as I told you before. Fat chance.”

All life had enveloped Bill’s eye as soon as he said it. He was elated. As if he had just won something… or rather someone. 

“I have my ways to b̷r̶e̶a̴k̸ y̵o̸u̷ d̴o̸w̶n̶. You won’t turn that portal on without me. I’ll make your every night a living hell every. T̷I̴M̶E̴. Y̸O̴U̴. T̷R̸Y̸."

Stan smirked. "Let this night be your first, then. You got nothing to lose. Or rather gain. So go ahead. Try me." He held out his arms, freely as he gleamed victoriously at the demon above him. "Welcome to my mind, Cipher. Because you're not getting out of it anytime soon."

"OH REALLY NOW? ALRIGHT. MIGHT AS WELL MAKE THIS FUN. E̶N̷J̴O̵Y̷ Y̶O̶U̷R̵ S̵W̵I̷M̴,̴ T̶H̵E̸N̴.̵!! SEE YOU LATER.”

When Bill vanished, darkness cascaded up from the floorboards, the gray atmosphere enclosed in just mere seconds and Stanley could hear the water rapidly rising through the house, drowning out every light and every window that decorated its vacant existence. The roof had appeared once more upon Bill's absence, drowning out any sign the sun was still there and Stanley looked around to find an exit, but Bill had manipulated the space to also board the window, it’s triangular frame sealed shut by soaked planks. 

Rushing towards the boarded window, he tried yanking off one of them, pulling it as much as he could before the water had risen up the stairs, clearing Stanford’s blood with salty waves. He refused to panic and ripped off two of the boards before the triangular window began to shrink in size. Stanley cussed under his breath as he tried to break the glass, however, the window had completely vanished, leaving just it’s wall behind. He looked and meandered to the stairs, water splashing around his feet and echoing off the walls of the pyramid exterior, it's reflections sending ripples along the wall but found the water had sealed off all means of escape and diving down meant little chance of making it out. He paced from corner to corner like a trapped dog with learned helplessness, cursing as the tide engulfed his legs and rose to his torso. Keeping his head above the waves, he swam along it’s ascending and was pinned to the ceiling in no time. Pressing his lips to the wood, he breathed in deeply and desperately before the waves enveloped him completely, leaving him in the mercy of murkiness of the cabin room, that was its own personal tank, with its fish that was just about to go belly-up. 

Stanley yearned for air and his lungs felt like they collapsed on themselves when he finally gave in, his eyes burning from the salt and his mouth and nostrils finally allowing access to his paradise to quickly become a nightmare. As his lungs filled with water and his mind blurred, he heard the horrid laughter of Bill Cipher, clear from within the dark.

* * *

  
  
  


Stanley woke up gasping, breathing in hoards of air from within the shack, now sitting upright and clutching his chest with a trembling left hand. A cold sweat accumulated everywhere on his body, and he was shivering madly. Swallowing repeatedly and blinking rapidly, he tried to get his mind in check with the reality he now woke up in. There was no ocean or empty shack. Just a man jostled about a dream with a supernatural being.

A supernatural being that drowned him. 

But it was worse for his brother…

Oh god, Stanford. Stanford was with him. He just had to pra- no. Hope that Ford outran that thing. Wherever he was. It seemed like the two were separated but he could never be too sure. Was that Ford? Or a depiction of Ford? He hoped it was the second option. No, Bill said it was fake. That wasn't the real Ford. Calm down. Breathe.

But his brother bore his scars then. Even if it was just a vision. And he felt sick. And he couldn’t stop shaking. And he wondered how exactly Bill entered his dreams. Because that’s all it was. A dream. Nothing more. He wasn’t drowning. He wasn’t in his paradise. He wasn't in his nightmare. 

Stanford was gone. 

But he just had to trust that Ford could make it a while longer.

Just a while longer. 

Just give him a moment. 

Until he figured out how to turn the portal on his own way. Without Bill’s help. He could find a way to turn it on and only bring Ford back, turning it off before Bill could have his “so-called plan”. They were both so stuck in doing this their own way. After fooling the other, it was a match between both of them now. 

A race between the demon and him. 

And he needed to get started. 

Just give him a moment. 

Stanley groaned as he sat up, hearing a soft thump hit the floor. Peering down, the glistening gold of the journal grinned up at him in the reflection and he scooped up his twin’s writings. If anything, he needed to get started now. 

Moving away his coat he used as a blanket, he slipped off the couch into the cold night. He glanced at a clock hanging lopsided on the wall, and though it could be easy to misread the time because of its position, it was 2:38 am. He had only slept for two hours. Which, in turn, was good enough for him to get a head start on bringing his brother back tonight. He decided to find the bathroom again, although the last time he visited it, it was to patch his right bicep of the arrow wound, and by then he was quite stunned and infuriated to gather a proper map of the little shack. He heard the soft thumping of his footsteps upon that blue carpeting, and then be interrupted by their eventual contact with the flooring outside in the hallway. 

Was that whispering?

No, he was just tired. However, in comparison to what he’s been through, he wouldn’t put it past him. It was so quiet… the shack held a remarkable illness, if silence was indeed classified as a disease, and every breath Stanley took seemed to worsen its ailment. Every step further progressed it. He had just woken up, it was normal to feel this paranoia when he’s rested in an unfamiliar area. But at this level, for him at least, he wasn’t quite sure. No, he just needed to wake up. It was just the aftermath of that nightmare. If Bill was indeed watching him, Stanley wouldn’t let himself appear intimidated as he knew he had the upper hand and the beast was, if anything, absolutely desperate. 

However…

It wasn’t that easy when it seemed like every board in the walls and in the floors were tracking his every movement through the map of the shack. 

Just give him a moment. 

He found the restroom, in its terrifying condition as he left it earlier, where previous bloodstains were decorative imprints on the sink and on the floor and now he knew why. The boxes of bandages emptied viciously, their cardboard torn in such a desperate attempt to reach the contents within. It all made sense. Stop thinking about it. He’s gone and when you get him back you’ll help him. As long as the utilities still worked in there, and they did fortunately as he found the toilet to flush. The sink to turn on again. He was surprised he hadn’t pissed himself earlier with the horrifying things he witnessed that night. His brother a sprawling beaten husk, a greater evil nestled like a rodent deeply inside his body and contaminating him from the inside out with plagued fleas of madness. Out of everything he’s seen in his ten years of exile, that was one of the most unnerving. And one that he didn’t understand as fully as an inhumane mob murder of innocent civilians or bombing a building.

Was it laughing?

He was growing frantic. He needed to get to that portal. Life up here was growing a bit unnerving. 

Stanley turned the left nozzle, only to be greeted with freezing water, so he turned the other, with the same result. God, he wished for a warm temperature right now but that would seem too much of a blessing in this environment and how this menace caused Stanford to live. He decided not to complain as still the water flowed. He couldn’t get his mind off Stanford. Oh god was he still alive? He had to be alive. Like he told himself earlier, Bill wouldn't kill him off. If he was already dead Stanley couldn’t do anything-

He splashed water on his face and dragged his hands down his eyes, tugging the skin of his eyelids and cheeks down as he pressed himself to focus and actually wake up because it was so frustrating to be dazed and alert simultaneously. He wanted his mind in the right place before he started working on that lever to actually move. Maybe it was just stuck and that’s why. Bill had tried to stall earlier with (putting the knife in Stanford’s mouth) distracting Stanley and waiting before he got started on his thing. Why? That's right... Bill said in his dream he refused he let it charge. Maybe if he could keep it on for just a bit, he could pull Stanford out and Bill wouldn’t have time to start his Armageddon. Simple. Easy peasy. He could do that at least. He just had to get his mind in check and shake off the sleep that hung on his-

Eyes.

“Fuck!!” He yelled as he looked up at the mirror, backing away immediately when he made eye contact with his reflection, the golden infection contaminating his other’s slitted vision and their smile pulled into that eerie and insane grin. The one that matched Bill with absolute perfection. He swallowed and grit his teeth, the creature’s eyes tracking him through the mirror as Stanley dashed toward a mop in the corner of the bathroom and snapped off the wooden end, chips flying off of it. The counterpart did the same, equipping its own weapon in sync with himself, the mirror image only contrasting in one aspect: identity. Stan armed the broken end like a bat and swung it at the glass with full force, it shattering upon impact and the demonic countenance was no more. However, he could hear Bill’s wretched laughter bouncing off the glass that cascaded down onto the slate tiles. 

Stumbling and dazed, he began hearing the echoes emanating off the wall and he cringed, his heart beating faster and adrenaline coursing through his veins as he turned off the water. Damn it. Damn it. The mirror. Fuck. That demon knew him better than he thought, but he would never surrender to that thing. But it was watching him. Listening to him. It was toying with his senses and with his mind and he knew it. He predicted that possible years of this caused Stanford to cave in to fear whatever lurked around the corner and he growled in frustration, knowing that he was now Bill's target; Stanford's replacement. However, he told himself he wasn't going to cave in anytime soon to Bill's tricks and games. He wasn't going to break. He was nothing like Bill Cipher. Goddammit, it was not true. He was nothing like him. He was going to figure out how to save his twin and be the hero he always aimed to be because, goddammit, there was something that the monster wasn't that he could be in time. A hero. He exited the restroom, the mop still in white-knuckled fists and he glared as he stepped into a wider room, donned with triangular depictions and papers lined with Stanford’s paranoid scribbles. And the entrance to the staircase that led to the portal. 

Stanley scoured the room, moving papers aside to find anything useful, checking through drawers that lined desks and gathered as many papers that heeded incomprehensible instruction, ones that he didn’t even glance at in his first encounter, but now studied it with an empty mind. It was that and a little gray toolbox labeled “property of F” shoved in the corner, covered in dust and apparently forgotten until now. Odd that Ford would refer to himself as "F" but whatever. There was no second journal here. He would make use of what he had.

It was with these things that he stood and grinned, victoriously, as he would make do until he found the second journal and though he still was anxious under the gazes of several triangular objects, he felt triumphant as he unearthed a little red screwdriver from the box. 

“I’m comin’ for ya, Ford. Just give me a moment.”

He stepped off of the carpet and into the entrance, stuffing the end of the mop under his good arm and with his other, not carrying the toolbox, he plucked the lantern off the wall. Stanley looked back into the room and grimaced as he saw the demonic carpet, ever so contaminating the room with a convulsive energy. Quickly turning away, he began his journey

And

It’s

Pupil

Followed

Him

To the entrance.

As the smiling man descended into darkness for years to come, the last remnants of joy seeping out of him with every step down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Well technically that's the end, though I wanted to put an epilogue before I finalized it completely.
> 
> Oh man this was a journey and a half for me, and I hope it was for you guys as well! I can't believe all the comments and attention this got after I was so close to not continuing it after the first chapter! You guys are all amazing and you cannot imagine how much I looked forward to see your reactions after I posted a chapter! Hopefully, I'll include some one-shots with certain plot points that differ from canon in the future, but I don't think I would do another chapter fic of this AU. Probably some Ford and Stan interaction or something generally happier because this entire story was so depressing and im so srry i just,,, rlly like angst haha They'll be happy though, I promise!
> 
> *Edit: some edits made and stuff


	8. Epilogue

“The monster found itself roped around its neck and it dragged me with it under the water! While I was in the lake, two fishing hooks ripped across my face. Out of shock and out of breath, I breached the surface, letting go of the rope! And the monster was gone. Never to be seen again.”

The little tourist crowd fell silent, in anticipation, as the majority held their breath when staring at their tour guide, the ambiance of the room still and expectant. They were in absolute awe, at least the older ones anyway, floored by his presentation and his tale surrounding the new exhibit in the Mystery Shack. The younger ones tended to look around the gift shop, seeing what trinkets there were before they begged their parents for them (or rather beg their parents to get out of this creepy shack) when his presentation was completed. The group stayed in suspense for a couple seconds before the mystery man placed both of his palms on the end of his cane and tapped it against the wood floor with pride. A few in the crowd jumped, some chuckled in delight at the loud sound immediately cutting off the tension.

The mystery man breathed in slowly, readying himself and lifted his cane over a golden tassel that bound a large velvet curtain together. The silvery iron end of the cane pushed against the wound tassel and the curtain dispersed, leaving an excited crowd to ‘awe’ and ‘ooo’ as they took pictures, flashes of camera light interrupting an atmosphere of tanned color shone by the overhead light in the room. 

“Until today that is!” Mr. Mystery beamed and tapped the edge of the picture on the wall behind him with the tip of the 8-ball cane, as cameras continued to flash at what was in front of them, brilliant white light blinking rapidly and strongly at a large black-and-white capture of a long-necked monster perched uniquely by a Gravity Falls dock, it’s image fuzzy and disorientated. If he knew anything about his regular customers, he could have given them a blank portrait of “Bigfoot” and they would still be hooting and hollering, even if the graphic showed nothing in particular. In the foreground of the exhibit, there was a large skeleton that was propped up by its photo in the background, it's neck holding the cryptid's skull locked in place, though he knew it was by super glue and plaster. These suckers would fall for anything. But he guessed it was just the magic of the mystery behind him and his tall tales. Below both the capture and the model were several scales, each a faded cerulean blue outlined in gray patches and dust, rough at the base but rounded at the edges, gleaming in the camera flashes and reflecting them in the dimly lit room.

He knew introducing his exhibits at the end of the day was a brilliant idea- since it seemed that the people that really wanted to see them were those that were actually immersed in the idea of hearing a captivating story that embossed the enigma of the beast and of its introduction in general. It was something to talk about before they made their way back to their campers and tents, spending the rest of their vacation pushing the buttons of the policemen that told them to learn how to put out their campfires properly. He prided himself on their gullibleness.

“Each of these were hand-plucked from the monster, the mysterious, deadly and bewildering…! uh Gobblewonker. Yeah, that’s right. For twenty dollars a scale!”

So they paid, or a good majority had, each handing over their pay and he would exchange it for a poorly made ancient leather dinosaur scale, in which they looked at with absolute fascination and curiosity. It was typical of a tourist group, floored by his stories and his determination in building yet another collection of meaningless objects up in suspense, thrill, and mystery. One that they could repeat, mindlessly and blissfully unaware of the truth behind the product. Some also herded in the gift shop, scooping their wandering child up in their arms or clutching their hand daintily, while the troublemakers held a snowglobe or a plush flannel platypus in their needy clutches. Most would just purchase a t-shirt with witty phrases over them (kudos to him for coming up with them) or a keychain they found was symbolic of their little trip to the hick town in the dead center of Oregon. However, it was known that his other creations had a much darker personality embedded in them so the people would buy the figures labeled "The Thing." or "???" and "What Could It Be???"

But as soon as their purchases dwindled them down to the last few customers, Mr. Mystery warded the group off with shouts of telling them to return to the Mystery Shack before closing the door and hearing the bell on the doorframe sing about the last tourist leaving. He flipped through the hundreds of dollars in his pockets from his final sale, switching the shack sign to closed, a smirk cradling his cheek. He walked over to the register and removed the fez from his head, tossing it lightly on the counter. As he placed each twenty-dollar bill within the confines of their spaces from his income for the day, at the corner of his eye he saw his prized headpiece roll off the counter, weighed by it’s blackened tassel. A soft thump emanated from it colliding with the wood flooring and he sighed, slipping the rest of the sale within the register and closing it. The “ching!” from the register seemed to echo throughout the gift shop. 

And then there was silence. 

God, the return of that dreaded silence.

At the end of the day there typically was. 

But this held in the air, and it continued to, like an empty noose swaying silently in a vacant closet, making him hold his breath. He expected anything of it as he let his glances flicker around the area, taking into account the shelves stocked with items found among the shack and from his creative hand, as he distanced himself from the counter. His hand dragged across the countertop, the skin and the oak making it's ever so familiar sound of friction as both textures spoke off each other. He balanced himself as he slinked around it, taking off his black jacket and placing it casually on the hook behind him on the wall that previously held the taxidermy fusion of a beaver and a ram he labored over a week earlier. He rolled up the sleeves of the white button-down shirt, loosening his tie only slightly and feeling at ease with the beginnings of his post-work attire. In the hushed state, he would relax and plan to rest and count his customers’ pay. But that could wait when he looked down at the fez, curled so uniquely at his feet, it’s tassel outstretched to the carpet that lay beside it. Mr. Mystery crouched down, cupping the headpiece in his hand before his eyes traveled along the yarn and to that dreaded carpet. 

It seemed to be staring at him. It’s pupil hesitantly dragged in the bottom left corner of its haunting eye - in his direction. He heard the reticence of the room interrupted by the nonsensical whispers that drummed against the inner of his ears. 

He stared in response to it, and narrowed his gaze, as he continued, crouched, to be still, with his firm hand adamantly locked on the fez and was squeezing it lightly, only, over time, his grip tightened and the felt of the headpiece began to crumple and sound its disapproval in being held so powerfully. Yet he was still and shut his eyes instantly as the whispers continued on and that horrible, mocking, sadistic laughter walked among them, varying in volume like it was in the streets of a crowded city and slipped between the people behind him, zig-zagging through the masses to get to him as he walked several feet ahead and quickened his pace because it followed him. 

And

It

Was

Getting

Closer

And

His

Heart

Thundered

In 

His

Chest.

Someone called out to him from the masses in his mind and he cringed, believing that now he was yet to be surrounded by those he’s cheated and that they cornered him and he couldn’t act because they cornered him and he had no place to turn to between the people that wanted him dead and that depiction on the carpet and now the whispers roared in his ears and he wanted it to stop. God, he wanted it to stop and he pressed his lips tightly together because the creature knew it had his attention and he knew it was all its twisted game. Yet that voice in the back of the crowd still called out his name. Yet he didn't tremble. He stayed still. A cold sweat overtook his body in complete fear and he felt his skin crawl as that laughter neared him faster with each passing second yet that voice in the background didn’t stop calling out his name and caught up to him and he gathered as much strength as he could to open his eyes before that thing took control of him again just in case this time it could-

“Mr. Pines? Are you okay?”

His eyes opened and he glanced up at the boy in front of him, who held a broom a tad bit taller than he was. He then looked towards the carpet in the center of the floor, it’s gaze centered in its typical position, consistently peering up at the ceiling above it. Then to his cap, which the hand that grasped it was now shaking, tense and bending the fabric and the craft of it. He swallowed down his anxieties, taking a deep breath and forcing his nerves to calm. 

“Hey there kiddo, I thought ya went home.” Mr. Mystery said, boosting himself up with his fez in his hand, straightening out the parts that he dented before he placed it on the counter beside him. “What’s keepin’ ya?”

“Oh, nothing, Mr. Pines. It’s just that story you told today was totally cool and I wanted to say something about it.”

“Uh, thanks.” he replied and walked over again behind the register, now unsure what he was doing. He believed he counted everything but it was better to double-check. Just to double-check. His mind had gotten the better of him earlier and maybe he lost track of the twenties that flooded the register. The kid took the broom and, watching the man with him in the room, began to sweep, absent-mindedly, glancing every so often at the man counting each dollar bill. The bristles that scratched across the room was like clockwork. Mr. Mystery could hear every gear clicking in tune to a rhythm, it's tempo calm and orderly, yet, in his state, had the potential to quicken along with his heartbeat.

His gaze was blank and he flicked every corner of the thin emerald papers by instinct alone through his thick hands, but his attention was certainly not on the amounts they represented. Chills ran up his arm and he huffed, hoping he would get a grip on reality and that… that THING was not the most of his worries. It would haunt him. And would continue to haunt him and wouldn’t stop haunting him until that machine was turned on in its favor. He wouldn't let that happen, though. But it was getting unbearable. And he was getting tired. And it was getting stronger. And he didn’t know if he was getting stronger with it so his mind drifted off into space, his galaxy once so full with ideas. Now it was barren, but at least he was more understanding. Maybe in his next dream, he would confront the hovering menace head-on and proclaim a deal of his own. Or maybe-

His eyes traveled upward at the stool being scooted in front of the counter, it’s metal legs scraping across the floor before it ceased it’s movement altogether. He cocked an eyebrow when the rounded boy lifted himself on top of the stool before him, and with a smile, the kid leaned over on the counter, his cheeks squished into the palms of his hands as he stared at the man fiddling with the cash and his legs kicked back and forth, ever so often tapping one of the legs of the stool he sat on. 

“What do you want, Soos?”

“Was it true?”

Mr. Mystery looked back down at his earnings. “Was what true?”

“Your story this time! Dood, it was so rad! Fighting that sea monster and lassoing it and punching it in the face with your bare hands only to rip the scales off-”

“Yeah I guess it wa-”

“But the part with the fishing hooks! Is that how you got them? Or is like the last story you told with the rabid ten-foot squirrel?”

“Look kid I-”

“Or the hoard of the batrantulas? Or! Or! How about that cool amulet you had to fight those killer lumberjacks for? Or that flying eagle-elk-snake thing with the massive talons that swooped down and took you off the ground? Or the raccoon-eating bushes that had those thorns? Or how about that one story-”

Mr. Mystery tapped the wad of cash on the counter forcefully, keeping his gaze averted from the fascinated child. “Kid, you need to stop taking these stories so seriously. They’re not true.”

Soos slumped over the counter, his pudgy arms cushioning the side of his face as he lay his head down on it. “But one of them’s got to be, Mr. Pines! I mean, how else did you get something so cool? They make you look like a super awesome apocalypse survivor from the future. Did you time travel? Is the zombie infestation thing gonna be real? I’m so curious! You can at least tell me, right? You can tell me right, Mr. Pines?” Backing away from the counter and standing up on the stool, Soos leaned over the counter, the child’s hands supporting him as his wide and fascinated eyes looked at the older man. Mr. Mystery glanced up, meeting Soos’s excited and fixed stare, sighing and looking down again to rub at his tired eyes. He scratched his graying hair before fixing his glasses.

“Listen, kiddo. I really can’t tell you. Or I shouldn’t.”

Soos’s face crumpled in disappointment and he slid back onto the stool, in a slumped sitting position, staring with a melancholy gaze at his basil-hued shirt, the question mark labeling it showed as much curiosity as the child had about him. Mr. Mystery’s shoulders sagged and he glanced sideways before putting on his best grin when he reached across the counter and ruffled the kid’s hair, crossing his legs behind him as he leaned on the oak. Soos, surprised, looked back up at him with wide awestruck eyes. 

“I shouldn’t until I run out of ideas. Remembering what REALLY happened might throw me off in coming up with ways of how they COULD’VE happened. Trust me, kid, you’ll hear about it one day. But in the meantime, that’s kind of my job.” He attempted a lighthearted chuckle as he crossed his arms over the countertop. “Comin’ up with new stories keeps this place up and runnin’. The Mr. Mystery job is a tough one, especially when I’m gettin' older and tourists are gettin’ smarter. You’ll play along for now, right? Tell me when I’m runnin’ out of ideas and then sure, I’ll tell ya.”

Soos beamed, priding his gopher-like teeth and Mr. Mystery couldn’t help but respond with another chuckle. It seemed like his eyes sparkled at the news, endless excitement held in his stare. Though it wasn’t the news he wanted, it looked like the kid would take it for now. 

“Sure thing, Mr. Pines! Don’t worry about it! I can wait a little bit longer.”

“That’s great, kiddo.”

Soos then got down from his stool and picked up the broom he previously had in his grasp and Mr. Mystery perked up, clearing his throat. The kid glanced over in his direction and straightened up. “Hey, I can take care of the rest. You’ve done a good job today, kid. I’ll be sure to pay you tomorrow. Now you should get home before it gets too dark.”

“Alright, Mr. Pines.” Soos replied and propped the broom against the wall, grabbing his backpack he stored under the counter after coming to the shack from school. He turned to head out before he stopped and shifted to face him once more. 

“What is it?”

“I was wondering…” The kid trailed off and glanced at him and then at the hallway. “I was looking at your calendar and I saw a picture of you tacked to last week. And I wondered if that was why you closed the Mystery Shack last week.”

“Oh yeah... I haven’t changed that calendar.”

“Are those kids yours, Mr. Pines?”

“No actually uh,” Mr. Mystery paused for a bit and smiled to himself. “Well, I guess yeah. My niece and nephew were born last week and I went to California to see them.”

“Oh! Congratulations! You think you can tell me more about it?”

“Yeah, they might make good future employees for this old shack one day.” Mr. Mystery laughed and folded his hands on the countertop, still looking down with a hidden joy. “No but um, thanks, kiddo. I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.”

“Okay! Have a good night, Mr. Pines!”

“You too, Soos.”

And the door shut behind him, the bell by the doorframe chiming in response to his exit.

And the shack was quiet again.

And he was Stanley Pines again. 

He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly. Stanley was beyond tired but as much as he wanted to just go upstairs and crash on his bed, he knew he couldn’t. 

He also knew he shouldn’t. He eyed the vending machine across the gift shop and he groaned in frustration, as it was most likely going to be just another night of failure but he at least held to his name the fact he was trying. He was trying with every fiber in his body to stay awake. But it was getting more difficult the longer he pushed on and he was aching almost constantly and his bones creaked and his eyes, he believed, were losing more natural sight every second he kept them open. But he was trying. And that was enough for him. 

Walking out of the gift shop and into the hallway, he could at least run to the kitchen for a cup of coffee or something to keep him awake for just another couple hours so he could finish up that chapter of that physics textbook he rented and actually understand what was being said this time so he could find a way to find another direction on how to activate the damned thing.

But it wasn’t clicking. Goddammit, it wasn’t clicking. He could at least be positive here and say he understood more of what he taught himself as compared to his earlier days. What was it now? Seventeen years? Eighteen years? Stan stopped himself in the hallway to look at that unchanged calendar Soos was rambling on about and found that yes, it still was 1999 in the month of August. He lost Ford in… 1982? So… yeah. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of failure. And it showed when Stan separated that tacked photograph of him from the Tuesday. August thirty-first. He exhaled a breath of despair to see that the sides of his hair had begun to gray in a stripe that curled itself just above his ears and spiraled in a ring around the back of his head, the familiar brown almost becoming a cryptid of its own, being lost to Gravity Falls. Stanley rubbed the scruff on his face that was already growing back after he got rid of what he saw in the picture, and his fingers brushed over those familiar markings of what was hidden more-or-less in the photograph. The markings that started it all. 

They brought a particular ambiance about them, something he could twist to sell his merchandise a little easier. Also, they introduced a tad bit of a darker tone to the shack itself, where mesmerized customers came in to wonder how exactly he got his familiar grin and he could play off their fantasies while also selling them ‘The Government Didn't Ask About The UFO's At The Mystery Shack’ t-shirts or have them marvel at his goofy creations like the “cyclops lizard- the cyclizard" and his darker ones like the goat-man or, today, the long-necked dinosaur in the lake he photographed from a misshappened wood log and a poor camera. He was kind of happy he got the idea of it from the ramblings of that crazy old man who comes by the dock every now and again. In fact, that hillbilly was pretty much everywhere. Another mystery drawn to the town by that weird magnet thing or whatever his brother rambled on about before his disappearance. 

Stanford didn’t get to see the kids at their birth. This tugged at his heart and he furrowed his brows in sorrow. Only “Stanford” did. Shermy was really excited to see “Stanford” and Stanley was glad to see him in return. He did the best he could to grow his beard and though there was still patches where nothing would grow, surprisingly Shermy didn’t pay much mind to it. No one had. And he could finally focus on something aside from his face. The only scars they really paid mind to were the ones on the side of Stan’s hands, where he “finally removed that sixth finger”. Giving himself scars was easy for him, as he knew how to heal them efficiently. He healed them and they healed nicely which sent a warmness to swell in his chest at the thought that he actually could heal. If he could heal from his early days and from the arrow and from self-inflicted scars, he could, no doubt, heal from this corroded mind the demon infected. 

Also, when he looked at the twins he carried in his arms.

Both small little gremlins were wrapped in white cloth, and though their mother and father were not seen, he remembered them smiling off to the side along with his elder brother Shermy. “Mason” he remembered, had the little birthmark of his own and Stan chuckled to himself as he thought of this little dipper growing up with that and how unique and beautiful it really was. Maybe he would be ironically into astrology and the liking, and his sister “Mabel” would call it lame nerd stuff and he smiled again because he had a feeling they would be the strongest of twins. He had a feeling they would have so much personality, so much opportunity, so much of a future. Oh gosh, they were twins. He remembered when he thought that when he held them and how quick he was to cry. Because they were twins with another chance. They were twins with a future. 

And maybe seeing himself like that 

Was worth all this trouble.

Because once he held them

And the tears rolled down his face 

Maybe this was a dream that Bill couldn’t get to. 

Not yet. As long as he was still in Gravity Falls. 

There was something that was worth smiling for. There was something worth crying for. There was something worth FEELING for. 

And it was beautiful.

He wished he could feel this forever.

But he was losing time and he couldn’t afford to lose time.

There was work to be done.

He had a twin of his own to save.

So he walked into the kitchen

But stopped. 

"Ah. Almost forgot." Stan whipped around quickly and walked around the shack, past his attractions and all his hard work his trembling and overworked hands would allow him to create. He stepped into his most favored room, the one with that off-colored yellow chair placed in the center in front of his prized television and, ambling over to it, he knelt down and felt between the cushions. "Gotta be in here somewhere---! C'mon... C'mon... Yes!" He latched onto something, concealed in the chair, and gently slid it out from its cotton confinement. 

And a brilliant number 3 shone back at him. 

What if he wanted to do a little studying during breaks? During his time awake? He really needed to get some sleep. No, he couldn't. On top of learning his brother's material and studying his journals and avoiding Bill's taunts and ignoring the hideous amount of nightmares he had each night, he couldn't. He wanted this to be over and it should have been over a long time ago. He hoped that Ford held on long enough.

"Alright. I can work with two. One left to find. But first. Coffee."

And he continued on his journey to the kitchen.

A triangular shadow stalking him on the walls.

And he knew it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the official end to Salesman's Smile!
> 
> *flails* Thank you to all the readers that stuck around to the end, and to those that found the fic when the first chapter was introduced because I could have never completed it without you guys who commented and kudo'ed this fic. This was the first official fanfiction I've individually written and I'm glad it was about Gravity Falls. As soon as I got an AO3 I wanted this to be my first project and it was and I thank you all for liking it! I also want to make some personal thank you's to leto-gkika on Tumblr for their fanarts on this fic and RabbitsFoot here on AO3 for inspiring me to write more of this AU after this fic completes! Seriously, ya'll are the greatest!
> 
> Hopefully, the ending isn't too disappointing, as I did want to leave it a bit open-ended as contributing to the suspense of the AU! Yup, Stan has the third journal in this AU, finding it after Bill gave him a clue in a dream (that lil trickster) but the twins get a hand on it eventually (though haha that's for another fic if I'll ever continue this...)
> 
> It meant so much seeing all your responses through the story and through all its cliff-hangers and little typing errors and grammar errors (I tried to catch all of them, I swear!) and I'm sorry I had to put you guys through that!! Thank you so much for putting up with my angsty and edgy AU *hides* Trust me I'm a happy person at heart I swear!! :'D A̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶'̶l̶l̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶v̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ ̶w̶r̶i̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶u̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶'̶r̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ ̶h̶u̶g̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶s̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶b̶r̶o̶k̶e̶n̶ ̶t̶e̶a̶c̶u̶p̶s̶ ̶n̶e̶e̶d̶! Hopefully, it wasn't so beyond gruesome, but eh who doesn't like a darker tone to a kids show?? 
> 
> Also cuz the end of Stanuary is like in two hours I'm so excited I got this all up before it ended cuz I fear I barely contributed anything much compared to all the artists and writers who stuck to the themes! Luckily Forduary is around the corner (though haha it'll probs be the same result)
> 
> But like,,, you guys have no idea how excited I am to see ppl like my writing and I'm so grateful for you all that liked it!  
> like thank you. I couldn't have done this without you! You guys are all amazing and so supportive and just make me wanna keep writing and I appreciate all yall for that :D

**Author's Note:**

> Wow so here's the glasgow grin AU. Posting the first chapter Tumblr was interesting as it took a bit of liking and I was genuinely surprised since the concept seems a tad bit dark! I secretly wanted to finish it, so I did! The idea was inspired by wanting to write a bit the hardships of what Mullet!Stan goes through in the ten years he's out and alone but I really wanted to write a bit of angst to accompany the idea. Though I've noticed that this famous Chelsea smile is typically seen associated with killers and the insane and such in mass media (most notably in Ledger's depiction of the Joker), I wanted to bring a different perspective on it by using the most ironic man for the job while also keeping to his secretive character. Also what an experience like it can do, especially for someone that eventually turns to crime.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you guys like it!


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